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Passages Selected from the Chief Writers 

and Short Biographies 



M. A, (Cantab.), D.Lilt.(Glas.) 

jierlv b\)U)nititiun Hchotnr of SV. John's CW/V^v, (Ittmhr 
and (lhailcs Oldhutn (University) tihakcspcarc Scholar 




With Introductory Essay by 

(}i(ccn Mdrfftiret Lecture)" in Englis 
(ildxtfwu I Infversily 



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' 4HMH I f Sff 

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INTRODUCTION - - .. ..... - xiii 


JOHN LYLY - . - . . . ..-..j 
From * ( Euphues " _...._. -3 

From " Enclimkm ---------- 5 

Bird Sontfs ----------& 

Cupid and Camp as pe ---------. 8 

GEORGE PKELE ......... 9 

A Sonnet - - - - - - - 10 

From " 'Jlie Araygncmcnt of Paris " 10 

ScphcstiVs Song to her Child - - - - - - - 16 

Duron's Description ot" Samcla ,..-,.- 17 
The Shepherd's Wife's Sonjj; .----.- - xS 

From " Dorastus and Fawnia " - i<) 

Greene's Death - - - - - - - -21 

JTI01VIAS LODGE ...--- - -3 

From ** Hosalyndo: Euphucs' CJoldcn r^o.^acic Jl - - - 24 

Rosulynde's Madrigal -.-...-- a(> 

Montanus's Sonnet ... - ^7 

Rowalyudc's Description - - - - 38 

THOMAS NASH - - - - - . - - - - 39 

Spring - ..---..- 30 

A Lament in Time ot" Plague - ~ 3* 

Vrom '* The Unfortunate Traveller " - 3^ 


'1'lie Death of 7/enocrate - . - . - - 37 

Helen -------- , ., - 38 

The Death ot" Faustus .,-.. . . 3C) 

Vrom "The Jew of Malta n .-......-- 41: 

FVom " Hero and Leanclcr J> - - - 4 2 

The Passionate Shepherd to his Love - - - - 47 


- M ;. 




The Spanish Tragic - 


From *' Navigations, Voyages, Trallique!!, :nu 


Albion's England - 


Passionate Centuric of Love .. 


OH" the Chcrrie and the Slae - 


Of the Lawcs of Ecclesiasticall Politic ' ' 


Of his mistrisse: upon occasion O f h c r \valKmi; in a 
To the Ladic Rich 


Darnel us Sonf? * :() m<s O' a phenu 

SIR EDWARD DYER - ., ., ^ l 

My Mynde to me u Kinjfdoino is 

ROBiaiT SOUTHWELL - ;';'; 

The Burning Babe - ;j 

New Prince, New Ponipo 

SAMUEf, DANIEL - - "^ 

Delia - - !T 

'i i \ 

Sonj; from " 1 lyinenV Triumph (> 

To the Ladic Margaret, (Vniutc; ;i)0 n\ ('nniluMl.ind " l " 

From u A Defence of Uyme M ., t; * 


From '* Nosce Tcipsiuu '* , n [\ 

From '* Orchestra *' - <j " 

Hymns to Astraea - 
Epigrammes .",, 

Anc Sehort Treatise, C(uUeinit^. somc Kt-ulr, .tml i'aufrh, t b<- ( H,rt'ui 

and Eschcwit in Scottis I> (iKr ,i r - - l ' M 

From " A Countcrhlastc to Tobacct) " **'' ^ 

JOSEPH HALL - - . ., ^^ 

Satires - - - ^ * " ' 

THOMAS DELON1SY - ,. * ta > 

From <c The Pleasant History '.fhonuw oi' U<Mttim; " l|1 * 


From <s Venus and Adoin:: *' , l : *' 

From < Lucrece " - - ., J ' M) 

Sonnets - - - * * * u 


WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (continued) p.^ 

Tilaniu's Lullaby - - - - - - - - - -134 

Balthazar's Song - - - - - - - - - -134 

Feslc's Song - - - - - - - - - - -13 5 

Ariel's Songs ..-_.... 135 

Love's Labour's Lost -.--*--,- 136 
A Midsummer-Night's "Dream ------, 137 

Romeo and Juliet - - - - - - - - - -139 

The Merchant of Venice - - - - - - - -1:40 

Second Part of King Henry IV - - - - - - -141 

Julius Ciesar - - - - - - - - - - -143 

Hamlet .-..--.-... 144 

Othello .--..--... 146 

King Lear .-...-----. 147 

Pericles ,,..--.-... 147 

The Winter's Talc - 149 

The Tempest --.--.---. 151 


Arden of Fevcrsham his True and Lamentable Tragedy - 153 

Sir Thomas More - - - - - - - - 157 

JOHN FLORID ,..-.- J59 

Montaigne's Essays - - - - - - - - - 160 


Res pice Fincm - - - - - - - - - - 164 

THOMAS CAMPION ..-----.- 166 

Hose-cheeked Laura, come - - - - - - - -"167 

The peaceful western wind, - - - - - - - -167 

Now winter nights enlarge ------- 168 

Jack and Joan they think no ill .---..- 169 

What then is love but mourning? ------- 170 

Thrice toss these Oaken ashes in the air ------ 170 

Her fair inflaming eyes - - - - - - - -171 

Kind are her answers - - - - - - - - -172 

When thon must home to shades of underground - 172 

Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow - 172 

My sweetest Lesbia let us live and love - - - - - *73 

The man ofliie upright - - ----- ^ 73 

Whether men do laugh or weep - - - - - - - *74 

Aurora - - - - - ~ - * - 

iVIIUlAEL DRAYTON - ...... (77 

Idea, 6 1, ....... -170 

To the Cambro-Britans and their Tlarpe, his Ballad of Agincourt - - 180 

From*' Nimphidiu - - . - - 183 

Polyolbton - - - - - - - - - - -184 

Vor,. II, Au 


- - - "v 



From f( Christ's Triumph after Death 
From " Venus and Anchiscs 
From " The Purple Island 

1 i 


Essays .....,., , 

From " The New Atlantis " - - - , () . 


From " The Parliament of Bees " 

GEORGE CHAPMAN - - - , , t(( ,, 

Homer's Iliads - - - , 
Homer's Odysseys ---,.. 
From " Bussy d'Ambous " . ,, , ,, 


Antonio's Revenge - , ,\ 

From " The Insatiate Countess " - 

From " What You Will" , "''J 


Old Fortunatus - 
The Gull's Hornbook - 
Content - 
Lullaby ----... 


From <c A Woman killed with Kindness " 
Pack, Clouds, Away - 


Song from " The Maid's Tra^dy " . ' '''* '' 

From (< The Two Noble Kinsmen " ''*;! 

Invocation to Sleep - m ' ^ 

From u The Queen of Corinth J> - - , '" |IJ 

From (e The Nice Valour " - ''*' 

Philaster; or, Love Lies a-BIccdin - - .". ' * 


From " Every Man in his Humour " , T> ' M) 

From ff Volpone 3> (The Fox) - ''* < 

Song. To Celia - - ' ,. -^ 

Chans' Triumph - -N7 

An Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy, a Boy-uelm 
Discoveries, De Shakespeare Nostrati 


From '* The Duchess of Malfy " 


* ^ >S 

M * 

J B 

* * 


From " A Cypress Grove " - - - - - - -278 

Madrigal: Sweet Rose, whcne ; is this Hue ....-- 379 

Flowers of Sion, 5 -.--..--- 280 

Madrigal: My Thoughts hold mortal Strife - 280 

Sonnet ------------- 280 

GEORGE WITHER ...... - 281 

The Lover's Resolution -..------ 282 


Britannia's Pastorals - _...--.. 285 


On his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia ------ 288 

The Character of a Happy Life ------- 288 

Upon the Death of Sir Albcrtus Morton's Wife - - - - 289 


Fairies Farewell - .-.--- 290 

JOHN DONNE ..------- 292 

The Sun Rising ---------- 294 

Song: (Jo, and catch a falling star ------- 295 

The Undertaking - ,...-..---.- 295 

The Canonization --..----- - 296 

SOUK: Sweetest love, I do not go - - 297 

From the " Sermons ---------- 298 


From " Characters '--..------ 302 

OWKN M^LLTHAM -......--.. 304 

From tl Resolves "---.. 305 

THOMAS MJDDLKTON .,.-.-..-- 306 
From a The Ch " 

PHILIP M'ASSINCJER .--.---- 315 

From u A New Way to pay Old Debts " - - - - - - 3x6 

From " The Picture " --...,-.--- 319 

From " 'i'he Virgin Martyr " - - - - - - - 3^1 

CYRIL TOURNKIJR -.....--- 323 

From " The Revenger's Tragedy -------- 324 

KOHKRT BURTON ---------- 325 

1-Vom "The Anatomy of Melancholy" .----.- 326 


From the " Autobiography n -------- 333 

JOHN' KARLK -----....-.- 337 

From u Microoosmographie " .---- 337 



From " Table-Talk " - ,i| 


From (f Histrio-Mastk " - - - M'i 


From "The Muses' Lookim;-Gt;isse n - ,;f) 

JOHN FORD ,ts.*, 

From cc The Broken Heart " - - j v| 


From (C The Lady of Pleasure " jf> ! 

A Dirge -.--.. . jh;; 

APPENDIX .-..., lft "; 

LIST OF AUTHORS - - - - . t st 


v, (KROM TJUK BUST ON ins TOMB) - Frontispiece 


Tun FIRST PACK OF Tins FIRST FOLIO (1623) OF " HAMLET " - - 126 

Tni>; FIRST PACJK 01- Tim FOURTH QUARTO (1611) OF " HAMIJBT " - 144 


Jil'.N JONSON ----------- 252 

SIR WALTER KALuitaz - - - 272 

JOHN DONNK ---------- 292 



Qwrni Margiiivl; Lecturer in Kn^Ut'li, (ilas^ow University 

lu the last: scene of his last play Shakespeare had an opportunity, 
which was perhaps one of the attractions the subject had for him, 
of reviewing the age in which, lie himself lived and worked: for 
Henry VIII brings the story of the struggle between the descendants 
of Kdward 111 begun in Richard It and continued through all its 
vicissitudes in Henry IV, Henry V 9 Henry VI, and Richard III to 
its triumphant conclusion in the glories of the poet's own day. 
These are not indeed directly presented on the stage, but celebrated, 
though with no breach of dramatic propriety, in a manner that allows 
of the intermixture of a strong colouring of the poet's own private 
feelings as an actor in the events he describes. When Cranmcr 
christens the royal infant Elizabeth, \vc have foretold enthusiasti- 
cally, it is true, but truthfully, for he is represented as divinely 
inspired, her glorious future: 

She shall be lov'd and fear'd; her own shall bless her; 

1 Icr foes shake like a Held of beaten corn, 

And Juintf their heads with sorrow; good grows with her* 

lu her days every man shall oat in safety 

Under his own vine what he plants; and sing 

The merry son^s of peace to all his neighbours. 

God shall he truly known; and those about her 

From her shall read the perfect" ways of honour, 

And by those claim their greatness, not by blood. 

These line lines have sometimes been dismissed as mere sycophancy 
unworthy of Shakespeare, but they were written at least; ten yours 
after Elizabeth's death in the reign of a successor who did not love 
to hear her praises, and there is no doubt they represent substantially 



the views on this period of one of the most represent alive Knrjishnu'n 
of his own as well as of all time. 

In nothing was Shakespeare more representative of Kli/ubellun 
England than in the Nationalism which, finds expre ision in tlii", pivi-;<> 
of the dead Queen. The enthusiastic protestations by hi-; eontent 
poraries of their loyalty have of ten, like his own words, been eensured 
as flattery. Elizabeth was, of course, like all ruler:; belmv or MIUT, 
the object of such abuse. It must be remembered, huuevrr, thai 
the part the sovereign then played in ^overnment was si ill u \ny 
personal one: the ruler was intimately involved in every uaiinusil 
and constitutional dispute. lie now stands above and lc\<m<! all 
such controversy. Different times and conditions dietale a, diHerem. 
language, and references to the sovereign thai; mi<,ht turn be rightly 
considered too personal and familiar could well in Kli/ahrth's time 
be the honest expression of an ardent ami sincere patriotism. And 
the Queen herself had by her wisdom and (inn conduct made such 
personal praise a natural vehicle for the aspiration?; of lover; <>l their 
country. To a petition of the Commons at. the bei' ( Inniii{; ol' her 
reign concerning her marriage, she .had replied; * l I have alieady 
joined myself in marriage to an Husband, the Kindnw <i' 1'iuj 1 , - 
land. 3 * And when her long reign was over the promise of this ro 
\ hour that they " had no need to doubt of a Successor " uu:; ma 
good in the quiet and orderly settlement of the succession, Sluikr 
speare could not omit without the gravest impropriety to follow hi;; 
praise of Elizabeth by celebrating the glory of the ivigmnn; mnnuteti; 

So shall she leave her blessedness to one, 

When heaven shall call her from this cloud of tlarKnrvi, 

Who, from the sacred ashes of her honour, 

Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she wa-;. 

And so stand fix'd, Peace, plenty, love, truth, terror, 

That were the servants to this chosen infant* 

Shall then be his, and like a vine j^row to him: 

Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shiar, 

His honour and the greatness ol; his name 

Shall be, and make new nations, 

But^it was Elizabeth's labour and devotion that; had made ihir; 

continuation possible, and those who were, like Hhake;;pe;m% ;m;ire 
of the blessings of good government did not forget to honour lier 
for it. 


The reigns of Klr/aheth and James, while providing sufficient 
adventure and excitement to occupy restless and emulous spirits, 
also afforded a peaceful period between the confusion attending the 
establishment of National Independence under a strong central 
government: and the disturbances of the subsequent struggle for 
the fuller enjoyment of the religious and civil liberty which National 
Independence alone made possible. Though Shakespeare has 
nothing to say of the struggle to come, his historical reading made 
him recognize with gratitude the respite his country then enjoyed 
from civil distraction. All through his Histories his preoccupation 
with his country's welfare comes to the surface, as in the magnificent 
but unhistorical lament of John of (Jaunt at; the ruin, wrought by his 
nephew's instability, the nephew to whom Chaucer addressed the 
Ballade which, concludes: 

Dred (Joel, do law, Jove trouthe and worlhynesse, 
And \vecl thy folk ageyn to stcudfuutnesse. 

Shakespeare's I tistories arc u perpetual call to steadfastness, and 
whenever he deals with politics, whether in his Histories or Tragedies, 
he never wearies of urging, through the mouths of his most sagacious 
characters, that observance of order and degree in the management 
of the aifairs of state so necessary for the general weal. He 
would have agreed with Cromwell: " A nobleman, a gentleman, a 

yeoman that is a, good interest of the Nation." The speech from 

Kir Thomas Moris included in the selections which follow can be 
assigned to him, one may say with certainty, for many reasons, 
but particularly for this, that it summarizes in the most pregnant 
manner the views expressed elsewhere by Shakespeare, in Troilus and 
Gressida, Coriofanus, and the Histories, voicing die conviction that 
the people have no interest and no advantage in. domestic confusion 
and misrule. It is significant that the occasion of this plea for law 
and order by More was the injury done the Flemings by the I Condon 
mob, and that it; is a plea for forbearance and good will among 
different peoples. The Nationalism of Shakespeare and his con- 
temporaries was no gospel of hate or envy- it was the patriot Sidney 
who spoke of "that sweet enemyFrance "~~ -but the expression 
of that passion for freedom which no good man loses, as the Scot- 
tish estates told the Pope in the fourteenth century, save with his 


Shakespeare's Histories are, apt to In* rnsinlrd a,; a ]\\ . 
of his art, but they arc only a small portion of the* pirv; >u ; ,urh 
themes that filled the theatres especially in his ratlin- da\s. Not, 
many except his have come down to us, hut fha rc\cal the spirit; 
of the time, and should be read in conjunction \\ith flir Chronicle,-; 
that inspired them, The Elizabethans wen* Keenh intrrr.trd in their 
country's story, and this enthusiasm nourished and vui ; iKrli' the 
outcome of their vigorous Nationalism. 

The effects of this national disposition arc seen in all the activities 
of the time, whether practical or poetical, "The- outeunoia and 
all-embracing circle of benevolence, 1 ' says Word-, \Muth, :<pe,ikiw? 
of the relation between the public and private duties ui ihr i 
vidual, "has inward concentric circles \\hieh, like* Uo-,e nl 
.spider's web, are bound together by links, anil iv.t upon earh othn; 
making one frame and capable of one treiunr; cirrlr; nanmuT and 
narrower, closer and closer, as they lie more near fo the <eiitrr of 
self from which they proceeded, and \vhidi sustain-; the uhnl<*. 
The order of life does not require thai; tin* sublime and Urante?e;.frd 
feelings should have to trust long to their u\\n unassisted pm\n," 
The national enthusiasm was felt throughout; the whole Uatue t.i 1 
Elizabethan life. It finds expression in the \\ords of Sidney 
treating of the war in the Netherlands against Philip the S 
wrote: u If her Majesty were the fountain, 1 \vohl fear, con-a 
what I daily find, that we should wax dry, IluL she is but a mea 
whom God uscth. And I know not whether 1 am t!eeea\ed; Imf I 
am fully persuaded, that, if she shold withdraw herself, other sptini^ 
wold rise to help this action, For, methinks, 1 see the ^reat \\urk 
indeed in hand against the abuscrs of th<^ world; \\heiein it is u 
greater fault to have confidence in mauls power, than it is too hasfilv 
to despair of God's work." This Is the consecration of the national 
spirit m the service of what Milton called the free and heaven IHUU 
spirit of man. At his untimely death the nation rightly Ml if had lust 
a devoted son. But the spirit of the time also walks us it, did m ih<- 
Arcadia m less sublime paths. It refreshes itself amon^ the woods 
and by the rivers of its own beloved land. DrsiyU.n'ii'/^nAWW 
a poetical and, to use Camdcn's term, " chonigrapliioal! " lUwrihti 
of England m thirty songs or books, with its bkmdif K of luMorii-al 
and antiquarian lore with poetic fervour, k a peculiarly KH/ahrthuu 

ami the interests of antiquaries ami descriptive pools arc a hundred 
activities quickened by a love of country. In their sea ventures, 
where motives were so mixed, where gold was the excuse men fre~ 

(luently offered to themselves and to others to mve some show of 

i. * 1 1 

rationality to their almost incredible thirst for adventure, scorn of 
the Spaniard and his restrictions found expression in a national 
pride that: sanctioned and encouraged, their trallickings. 1 lakluyt; 
lectured at Oxford on cosmography, hut his Na-ritftifioHs arc not 
merely the collections of a geographer, hut of an Englishman who 
celebrates the during and endurance of his fellow-countrymen. 

Such a national, temper inevitably gives even to the humbler 
sort si sense of individuality and worth. Of the political and civil 
rights \vhich we now boast of they had few or none; for what would 
the present generation say to compulsory church going? but: there 
can seldom have lived a generation of men so conscious of the native 
freedom of the spirit, Jt is not surprising, therefore, that drama is 
so important a part of the literature of the ago. " This is the form 
of art which as no other can shows you the living, breathing man,'* 
It presents the individual concretely, in action, where sympathy is 
not the outcome of a lengthy process of recondite analysis hut the 
intuitive resultant of 

A few strong instincts and a few plain rules. 

To interpret these sympathies or expound the art by which the poet 
moves them may tax the most subtle understanding, hut the drama- 
tist's appeal first and last must depend on the health and vigour of 
the moral sentiments of his audience. It is clear the Elizabethan 
theatre-goer had many defects as what audience has not? but one 
will have to go back to the Persian wars and the clays of /Bsehylus 
and Sophocles to find a comparable body of spectators. 

Every artist, says Wordsworth, has to create the taste by which 
he is enjoyed, and the education of the Kli/,abethan audience in its 
rapidity and completeness is not merely a tribute, to the genius of 
the dramatists, but to the intelligence of their pupils. For in a few 
years the leading London companies were transformed from organi- 
zations depending chiefly on the popularity of the clowns and the 



dexterity of their tumblers to a hotly of art on-; almost \\iiollv j;i\vu 
over to interpreting the conception of the dramatist, In llutulrf \vi: 
hear the comedian being finally put in his plao\ hi;; invl<'\,wntr 
suppressed, and the attention concentrated uu fhr dnmu. If thr 
dismissal sounds somewhat summary, considering \\haf Shakrspnm' 
had been able to make of his clowns, \vc must rrtwtuhrr thai, thr 
dramatist had no more time to spare stretching hi:; ftmin^ tu utiti/r 
this dangerous ally with the more necessary qumtinu:; **|' Otfn'ttn, 
Macbeth, Lear pressing for solution, Beside,", ample extract?; I mm 
the final achievements of this remarkable proce^*. of drv 
there will be found in the following selections jaiflidrnt i 
of the influences that contributed to the ultimate perfection. 

Without attempting to retrace the growth of Uu* dratiiafie nui- 
panics into an earlier and much more ohseure periotl t it may In* 
said that drama entered on Its fmal development, \\hen the com- 
panies became able to provide some sort of living fur men of rdueu- 
tion. Though nominally the servants of the wovereit^i or ,%twe 
nobleman, the actors made their living from the puhli<\ hut ;uistO" 
cratic influences played an Important part in moulding Uu* tlumuu 
and in the plays of Lyly we see how this inilurnce otnihl 
almost in isolation. For these plays were not; written for th 
public, but to be performed by boy-actors to aratuer.ttie p;itroiw. 
In them he assumes a classical disguise for the treatment uf these 
questions of deportment, and especially of lite relations hruveen 
the sexes in polite and cultured society, matter that, had nhen usr 
to a literature in Italy of which he \vas a diligent student, and that 
now interested courtly circles in Knglaml The (^reek story or 
myth satisfied a craving for beauty and poetry deeply implanted in 
an age whose schoolbooks were the Latin classics, l,vly \va*t in 

t^ 1 s 

addition a stylist attempting to give to the prose in whieh he rom- 
posed both his Euphucs and his comedicn a form, cle^anee, and 
ornament that would continually attract and hold his rentier or 
hearer. The influence of Lyly may bo seen in such a pltty an Shake- 
speare's Love's Labour's Lost, which, being written probably in the 
first instance for some aristocratic entertainment, Htuiuto italf-way 
between pure court comedy and works like Twelfth /Vi/f/i/ or /1/i/r/i 
Ado, where high comedy finds a place, and in the adventurcn of 
Beatrice and Benedict an honoured place, on the public 



lore influential than court comedy was school and university 

drama. This is modelled on. the practice of the ancients, especially 
that of the Roman dramatists or their humanist successors. At first 
this sort of drama was composed in Latin, as when in 1532 the boys 
of St. Paul's played before Cardinal WoLscy in a Latin play composed 
by their headmaster. A little later these classical imitations were 
written in English, and became popular at schools, the Universities, 
and Inns of Court. Such productions were not merely the amuse- 
ment of a small and uniniluential clique of theatrical enthusiasts: 
they were taken seriously by the authorities, headmasters turning 
dramatists like Nicholas Utlall, head of Kton and then of West- 
minster and now remembered as the author of Ralph Koistcr Dohter. 
Seneca provided the model for tragedy, Plautus and Terence for 
comedy, and if most of these school works can be dismissed in the 
somewhat severe words of one of their critics as " dull trash of a 
kind tolerated nowhere in England outside the Inns of Court and 
the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge", they are very important 
historically, and had a decisive influence on the younger generation 
who were now to emerge from the grammar schools and univer- 
sities and capture the popular stage with compositions that reveal 
their schooling. 

The first dramatist to graft successfully to the English stock 
classical tragic tradition as exemplified in Seneca was Thomas KycL 
Though not a University man he had been educated at the Mer- 
chant Taylors' school under the famous Dr. Mulcastcr, who urged 
on his pupils, the most famous of whom was Kdxnund Spenser, the 
importance of a study of the classics as a means of disciplining and 
perfecting their English. Like Marlowe's Edward II and Shake- 
speare's Titus Andromcus, Kyd's Spanish Tragedy shows traces of 
its origin: some quantity of Latin quotation and reference still 
sticks to the text like wax to the young bee. With this work he made 
an immediate and deep impression, old Hieronimo remaining u 
character in the minds of playgoers for the next fifty years. At every 
turn, however, he is indebted to Seneca, for though the revenge 
theme is common in all literatures, it is here conducted in the classical 
manner with the accompaniment of avenging ghost and torturing 
doubts, soliloquies and recriminations. But Kyd showed remarkable 
skill in managing the five act intrigue plot which had now become, 


partly through the influence of Latin comedy, the standard Conn for 
all English drama of the time. Though Kyd is not, a poet, his verse 
is in keeping with his theme, imitating not nnsmve:;:, fully ;it times 
the gnomic turn of Heneca, 

They rock no laws that mcdtlalc re\ nn\c, 
Evil news fly faster still tluui r.oml. 

And here and there occurs a phrase that must have lingered in 
Shakespeare's memory to emerge transformed perhapw, bnl rrvealtnj; 
the original brightness that may lurk obscurely in Kyd's dialogue. 

Marlowe had none of Kyd's skill in construction, ;md some 
simpler and more archaic form than the live art: intrigue plot would 
perhaps have better suited his genius, but he curried the day with 
his poetry and rhetoric. "What gave the theatre its Midden ,utd 
direct hold on the people," says Mr. (Jramitlc liarker, " \v,t;; the 
newly arisen art of emotional acting demanded by the risjnj; drama 
tists." This was obviously required by Kyd, ami AlatluweV; 
gave the actor another form of this opportunity. If Tarltou ami 
Kempe carry on the older tradition of downing, Alh-yiu- and Iim1.;i};<- 
are the products of this new school: the tragedians "were to (all heir 
to the popularity of the clowns. No donhf there is too much of the 
drum and fife in Tambtirlaine. to satisfy the wekrr for prrfivtion. 
but there is a genuine note of aspiration and power. And beside 
the domination of the verse is the domination of the figure he -H-leet-; 
as .his protagonist. There is no one in his earlier playVbnt Tamlwr- 
ame and Faustus. They may he far from consistent, and natnnd in 
the details of their doings, but there is a fundamental cmwi,,uwv 
about them that gave them their strong appeal. They represent in 
tor impossible longings and desires something permanent in human 
nature and they only fail to do justice to the theme because of the 

, 1C f th Phiy but U cw 
!V> to q>tc again from Mr. (iraiivillc liarke 

Shakes P carc from a good dtanwtwt into u ^rc 

of charactcr 

r Und by alion 

"n? n ^M f 1 ^V ThC ***** in tht ' ^, 1-wever, 
leaven :n all Marlowe's best work. wci.w at war 


with mortality itself, and, Fiiustus would venture on the dark unex- 
plored seas beyond the safe shores of human knowledge. What 
makes Shakespeare's later heroes so much more tragic than Mar- 
lowe's youth ful supermen is their greater humanity: they cannot 


As if a man were author of himself 
And owed no other kin. 

There is a consequent rending of heartstrings of which the other's 
creations know nothing, 

Marlowe is typical of his age in the force of his personality, lie 
was sufficiently like his works to be dressed in the legend they 
suggested, of one inspired like his own, Kaustus by familiars from 
another world. In his dramas the individuality of the age finds ex- 
pression forcing its way on to the stage, and animating its puppets 
till they become in the hands of his greater contemporary 

Forms more mil than living man, 
Nurslings of immortality* 

Shakespeare began, like Kycl and Marlowe, with classical models 
steadily in view, l^enm and Adonis, which no student can explain 
away as the work of another, owes much, to Ovid, the Comedy of 
Errors is adapted from two plays by Plautus, and Titus Andronicus 
is a Senecan revenge tragedy culminating in a situation of horror, 
the serving of children to their parent, borrowed from the Thyestcs. 
This tragedy has often been attributed to other hands in spite of 
clear contemporary evidence that it is by Shakespeare himself. 
Some think that he had not sufficient Latin to write it, others that 
he had too much taste. The first view arises from the opinion, 
propagated in the eighteenth century, that he was born in an 
illiterate age in an obscure provincial town where the inhabitants 
were sunk in ignorance. Such an opinion has no historical justifi- 
cation, Elizabethan England being well provided with schools of 
excellent quality. Nor were the majority of these schools recent 
creations, and some even dated from Anglo-Saxon times. The 
grammar school at Stratford was, like many others, rcfouncled in the 
reign, of Edward VI, but with the money confiscated under the 
Chantries Act that had previously been devoted to education, 
There was a school in Stratford as early as the end of the thirteenth 


century. Modern historians of education arc unanimous in li 

a keen desire for education and ample provision lor if, in Shake- 
speare's day. One illustration must sufluv. Professor John W. 
Adamson instances as typical of the time that tlu'tr were* tWh .seven 
schools or centres of instruction preparing for the university spread 
over Essex before 1600; to-clay Kssex has thirty-four :ieeondarv 
schools, nearly all on the border of or in the London area, A lm\ 
educated at Stratford grammar school tni^ht \vell have lite cbsi'iea! 
reading disclosed by Titus Andmiicw* Ivyd luul no more than a 
grammar-school training. And that Shakespeare would not present 
such Senecan situations as arc found in Titns Andrnnictis is a \ ie\v thai, 
overlooks the fact that Seneca was amon^ the educated tin* aeerpted 
model for tragedy. If mere taste were to decide what r; Shake- 
speare's and what is not, there would he many voices a^uiirit the* 
inclusion of Venus and Adonis in Shakespeare's works. 

From the first Shakespeare is a more skilful dtamutbt than 
Marlowe, handling the intrigue plot as in The (fawrtly nf Ktntn or 
The Taming of the Shrew with obvious skill. Iliji vetstiiratton is 
more fluid, his characterisation more natural lie had a ^enius inr 
comedy as Marlowe had not, and this culminates in lib first ^reaf 
creation, Falstaff. With Hamlet following so dose <w KaKtalf we 
have the best evidence of the reach and profundity of his gettiuH, 
This only matured after a long and arduous period of neli* *traiuw{ in 
the materials at his disposal His principal resource, forunutely 
for us, was his poetry. This at the beginning is often little mote than 
an embroidery on the theme and deliberately poetical: it always 
remains poetical, but between the poetry of Richtmt II ami the poetry 
of Macbeth there is a world of difference, ft in now Hirii'tly relevant, 
to the matter In hand, and without any loss of unity a:; ;i \vholf 
marks off character from character \vith perfect dfurwss, Thr 
beauty of such a line as 

The setting sun and nuusic at the clow 

can almost dispense with its context, but I ,ear^ 

Never, never, never, never, ncvvr 

is not to be taken from the play m which it Ktamk The poet ry *.f 
the mature work has to convey to our intdli R encc an clearly m 


possible a complicated story, but it must also take the imagination 
behind all this by the 'thousand suggestions that lurk in its rhythms 
and imagery into the inner world of mind and conscience which is 
now the subject-matter of his art. It is impoSvsible to exhaust the 
variety and interest of his poetry. 

In Shakespeare, of course, the work of the period finds its cul- 
mination, but beside him is a wonderful array of writers: Jonson 
and Chapman, Beaumont and Fletcher, Webster, Ford, I Icy wood, 
are but a few of his contemporaries and successors. Though none 
has the master's rare combination of talents, each has something 
valuable, and a few are men of real genius. It is impossible to read 
the novels of to-day and yesterday, including the Russians, with 
any vitality in the characters, without being reminded of situations 
and lines in the Elizabethans. And if the novel may have this advan- 
tage for the ordinary reader that it is fuller and more obvious in its 
exposition of character, the Elizabethans have all the advantage in 
the concision and poetic force of their treatment, 

It has sometimes been urged in criticism of the Elizabethan, 
drama that it is too secular, and misses by its neglect of religion those 
last sublimities to which the mind can be carried only by faith. 
With such a view in mind, one must turn to another side of the 
literature of the period. Sermons were as popular as plays and 
came in greater quantities from the press. The Diary of John 
Manningham, it has been pointed out, records in the space of some 
sixteen months the substance of more than forty sermons. Manning- 
ham was a playgoer and disliked Puritans, nor is he singular in his 
interests. Those, therefore, who wish to take a comprehensive glance 
over the period should not neglect to read some sermons, including 
those of Henry Smith, Hooker, and Donne. But neither on, the 
abundance nor on the quality of its sermons need the age rely for 
a vindication of its spiritual interests, 

The Renaissance has often been represented as the enemy of 
the Reformation, but without the learning and scholarly interest 
of the Renaissance the Reformation could not have made its most 
valuable gift to the people, the Bible in a language they could read. 
In the Exhortation which he prefixed to his edition of the Greek 
New Testament (1516) Erasmus expressed himself on the reading 
of Scripture as follows: 



"I would desire that all women should reul the < Joiiprl ami rant's 
epistles: and I would to God that they wiv irattiiisitinl into ihr i.mi'ur; (' 
all men. So that they might not only he reud^md limun of the S Mi;, ;md 
Irishmen, but also of the Turks and Saraecns." 

At the time when Erasmus expressed this wish *' eandidatet; for the 
priesthood were forbidden by order of Convocation to iranstate any 
part of the Scriptures, or to read them without the authority nf tin* 
bishop, an authority which was seldom granted ". TymUte \VIIM ihe 
first to make the wish of Erasmus a reality, In defying an injurant 
churchman he had declared, " if (Joel spare wv lift*, ere many year.; 

f ^w if 

I "will cause a boy that driveth the plough shall know mnie of the 
Scriptures than thou doest". And his New Testament (t,vv;) and 
Pentateuch (1530) are the busls of the Kn^lish Bible \\c know to 
day; and even after the revision of hSSi " eighty per tvnt ui' the 
words in the Revised New Testammt stand us thev stood iu Tut- 


dale's revised version of 1534''* 

The seed found a fertile soil in England, Sir Thumtu; More 
reckoned that more than half the population \vere able enough to 
read if not to profit by the Knglish version. He fovsa\\, houever, 
the misuse of the work, the wrangling over doctrine and eercmonv ( 
and all the terrible wrong-headedncss that: would nu Imijvr he con- 
fined to the clergy and educated laity, 1 le could not petsmule himself 
that the wheat would not be choked by the tares, A Royal Procla- 
mation (1538) forbidding the reading of Senptnre j^tneeH at imeh 
abuses, noting that many of the King's " loving but uiniple stthjeel:; 
were induced arrogantly and superstitions!)' to dispute iu open 
places and taverns upon baptism and upon the holy sucnuunit ol' 
the altar, not only to their own slander, but to the reprtiaeh of the 
whole realm and his grace's high disconlentalion and ilispliwwv ", 
But Foxe's Book of Martyrs, an indispensable document, lor the 
understanding of the age, shows how earnestly it was jitudied; tlmi 
entry, however, in a volume of the reign of I lenry V I If tnitnt uullitv 
here to illustrate the enthusiasm of the ordinary man tor the 

"When I kept Mr. Latimer's sheep, I bought thin book, \Uu-a the 
Testament was abrogated, that shepherds miwht ntit mid it, I ,rav <J*d 
amend that bmdness. Writ by Robert Willmmu, k,^ mi ^ U|mn 


The Bil)lc has become an KngKsli book as it has not become the 
book of any other people into whose language it has been translated. 
This would not have been possible but for sonic strong sympathy 
in the English for its matter. Yet hero is contained the genius and 
spirit of Religion, and the Authorixcd Version of i Cm, which closed 
for more than two centuries the attempt to make the Bible as Kuglish 
us possible, was the work of Shakespeare's contemporaries. One 
cannot readily believe that the literature of sxich a generation was 
merely secular in spirit. 

And indeed such a judgment h only possible when we confuse 
relicious feeling with ecclesiastical ceremony. The Anglican settle- 

W * tf W W *fc 

ment has often been sneered at as the offspring of Henry villa 
desire for Anne Bolcyn, but it was made possible ami in the end 

inevitable by deeper forces than the caprice of the King. No doubt 

j i * ' 

it was a compromise, but it allowed sensible men for a space at least 
to be free from worry about the external and political aspects of 
their belief, and to give their most earnest thoughts to those inward 
matters which are the material for literature us well as the evidence 
and test of faith. Of Shakespeare's religious politics we have satis- 
factory evidence in King John as in his Nationalism and whole 
attitude of mind, but Newman was able to count him among the 
most truly Catholic of the poets. 'There is no attempt to translate 
into the perishable language of ritual or creed the truths of the 
heart, no distortion of vision to accommodate some belief, but the 
voice of free humanity uncontrolled cither by priest or presbyter, 
and not needing even to protest: at their interference, Yet there is 
no indifference or idle scepticism, and in this Shakespeare is only 
once again the representative of his age. As a commentary on his 
own words, " (Jod shall be truly known", may stand some sentences 
which the Spanish humanist Hr. Miguel de Unamuno has addressed 
to Don Quixote's squire, and which may be transferred to the 
Elizabethan audience, the Sancho Panza without whom the drama- 
tist cannot carry through his high adventure: 

" Thine, Saueho, is genuine futth, not the so-eulU % il * faith of the char- 
coal -burner \ who affirms that to bo true xvhich is printed in a book he has 
never read because he cannot read, and who furthermore does not know 
what the book sa 

If there is in the best Elizabethan work what we in our com- 


placency call "a modern note ", a view chiucltrd fnuu the rcslrio 
tion of creed and the limitation of knowledge, it is not; because of 
lack of seriousness, but because it has for the moment; by tin* in- 
tensity of its imaginative energy found si \vay to what; lies brneath 
and animates both science and religion* 

With the passing of the national impulse and the break-up of UK* 
unity of the country comes a change in its literature, hut; the leijaey 
of this happy moment can be enjoyed in part; at; least ami in ;;ume 
measure estimated In the following pages. 


c. 1590 c. 164.0 




" " ^ ' \ ' \ ' "\ J* f"' ' '1 1" -Y " ""% < **> 
V *J \ f\ I J "V J 

Y ht -fl* a H-i *i* '* ?t Ifc r -wf i * i*t wa*Wt MWW rt* *) 'I'tamr W W< T*to ml *nw s* 

Witf rtrfuv WfW WMfc(*ir*M'i''L- 


(? 1 554 1606) 

Lvi,v was a u man of Kent n 

nd wan horn in 1553 or 1554, lie 
was cilueattHl at Mnj\tI;iUw Tollcj^c, 
OKfortl, where he ^militated B,A, 
in 1573 and M.A, in 1575, When 
a yountf nuin of twenty-live, lie 
leapt into mlden fame hy publish* 
in^ hi prone romance, tfafilnws or 
flic AiMtumiv of IJV/, Thm hook 
wa ininuMiscly popular* and for 
more than a deeade exerebed a 
notent influence not only over 
Jterature hut over polite conver- 
sation. The oxuct nature of 
cufihuhm, as the jargon of Lyly's 
hook eamc to bc'culltul, ha been 
HometimcH inisinterprctctL Kir 
Walter Scott in in part reHpwwiblo 
for tills, an Sir Fiereic Shafton, who 
IB represented iu The Monmtwy^ as 
a cuphtnHtj w a vain and fantastical 
fop, but not a euphuwt in the proper 
seme of that worth The' chief 
characteristics of euphuism are; 
(i) 4I a aweet profiuslon of soft 
allusion '* to the chwHica, especially 
to classical mythology; (a) refer- 
ences to unnatural natural history, 
mostly derived from Pliny (Lyly 

VOU 11, 

not only mentions ** Beasts which, 
Uuilon never knew ", but attributes 

extraordinary anilities and habits 
to \vell-kno\vn leasts); (3) allitera- 
tion, or affecting the Jotter; (4) 
antithetical arrangement of words; 
(5) puns; and (6) epigrams, Lyly's 
style took the polite world by 
storm; he followed up his success 
hy writing a sequel to his novel, 
entitled Kufihucs and Ms England 
and published in 1580. Both novels 
are thin sis regards plot; the author 
devoted all his energies to elabo- 
rating his fantastic but by no means 
despicable style. Like many works 
which have been extravagantly 
praised on their first appearance, 
,Lyly*tf two novels have been unduly 
depreciated by many later genera- 
tions, lie was something of a 
philosopher and moralist as well as 
a courtier, and his books may; be 
enjoyed for their sound moralizings 
as well as for the elaborate style 
which has gained for them a limited 
immortality in examination-papers- 
Lyly's other non-dramatic work 
consists of a contribution (which is 

I 25 


denied to him by some critics) to 
the Martin Marprelate controversy, 
a controversy which produced a 
legion of pamphlets but no litera- 
ture. , . 

Lyly cherished the ambition- 
destined to be unfulfilled of be- 
coming Master of the Revels, lie 
was " entertained as servant " by 
the queen about 1580, and wrote 
in all eight comedies between 1579 
and 1590. His plays were all 
written for performance at court by 
the Chapel Children and the Paul's 
Boys; hence they stand rather 
apart from other Elizabethan plays. 
They are written in a delicate and 
trifling vein, their charm lies in 
their dialogue rather than their 
plot, and they are designed to 
appeal to a highly cultured audi- 
ence. They are caviare to the 
general; the groundlings of the 
Globe would have found than 
unintelligible and insipid. It is not 
easy to ascertain their dates with 
accuracy, but their names and 
approximate dates are Endimwn 
(1579), Sapho and Phao (1582), 
Alexander and Campaspe (1583), 
Gattathea (1584), Mydas (1588), 
Mother Bombie (1589), Love's Meta- 
morphosis (1590), and The Woman 
in the Moone (1590). They arc all, 
except The Woman in the Moont\ 
written in prose, not in blank verse 
nor in doggerel. With one excep- 
tion, Mother Bombie y which follow*; 
the Plautine tradition, they are all 
mythological and fanciful come- 
dies. The best of them are perhaps 

. Many of them have horn 
interpreted us containing veiled 

references to contemporary hrifnry; 
this method of interpretation, which 
is absurd or almost invariably so 
when applied to public pla\s, i<; not 
unreasonable uhen applied to these 
court shows. Lylv'r* comedies are 
high comedies; they atou-ie \\hat 
George Meredith ri.iul a t'ouunlv ^s 
tlLstin^uifiluHl from a f.uvr ;4i 
arouse thoughtful Inu^htrr, 
prase is the work of" a litmtv 
tirtist; he frcrlv iufnnhirril into hin 
plays lyrirs of thr niu*4 i'luinuioi^ 
kiiul, dcli^htftil in UK'uwhrt mul 
in keeping with tlir situation, 
p riu\sc lyrics did not appear in fypr 
until the coIltTtivc cilitiou oi t^fA 
but then; it; no nml to dctty that 
they are 'jit any rait* thr hulk of 
than LylyV \v(rk, Hn plt't air 
negligible; lu* aw ntru not clratly 
but aa trees walking; hnt ht-t ^n*at 
gifts to drama an* idiunwnt, 
literary tyle, and the ia;JiitHi of 
introdneiti^ lyries. It in not merely 
the fart that he adopted pm?e m a 
vehicle for his comediei that makr:i 
him huportunt. He h inipnrtant 
because his sttyle, thoti^lt often 
conceited and iuutuwiie^ b ;t ntyle; 
not a mere furmitoiw coiu'attr;;e oi 
wordn, us the eomjxmituwH ot" : 
of his prcdeeeHHom tended to l 
[R k Warwiek Hoiul, The C 
ctt 1 Works uf Juhn /*y/v; , 
Wilson, John Av/v; <\' t, 'hiKI, 
l and AVA/mw A. K 


From "Euphues" 

Euphues to a young gentleman in Naples named Aldus, who 
leaning his study followed all lightnes and lined both shame-* 
fully and sinfully to the gnefe of his friends and discredite 

of the Vniuersitie, 

If I should talke in words of those things which I hauc to conferre 
with thee in writinges certes thou wouldst blush for shame, and I weepe 
for sorrowe: neither could my tongue vtter that with patience which 
my hand can scarce write with modesty, neither could thy ears hcare 
that without glowing which thine eyes can hardly vewe without grief e. 
Ah Aldus, I cannot tel whether I should most lament in thcc thy want 
of learning, or thy wanton lyuinge, in the one thou art inferiour to al 
men, in the other superior to al beasts. Insomuch as who seeth thy dul 
wit, and marketh thy fro ward will, may wel say that he neuer saw smacke 
of learning in thy dooings, nor sparkc of relygion in thy life. Thou onely 
vauntest of thy gentry, truely thou wast made a gentleman before thou 
kncwest what honesty meant, and no more hast thou to boast of thy 
stockc then he who being left rich by his father dyeth a begger by his 
folly. Nobilitic began in thine auncestors and endcth in thec, and the 
Generositie that they gayned by vertue thou hast blotted with vice. If 
thou claimc gentry by pedegree, practise gentlenesse by thine honesty, 
that as thou, challcngest to be noble in bloud, thou maist also proue noble 
by knowledge, otherwise shalt thou hang lyke a blast among the faire 
blossomes and lyke a staine in a peece of white Lawne. 

The Rose that is eaten with the Canker is not gathered bicause it 
groweth on that stalke that the sweet doth, neither was Helen made a 
Starre, bicause shee came of that Eggc with Castor, nor thou a gentleman 
in that thy aunccstours were of nobilitie. It is not the descent of birth 
but the consent of conditions that maketh Gentlemen, neither great 
manors but good manners that cxpresse the true Image of dignitie. There 
is copper coine of the stampc that gold is, yet is it not currant, there 
commeth poyson of the fish as wel as good oyle, yet is it not wholsome, 
and of man may proceccle an euill childe and yet no Gentleman, For as 
the Wine that runneth on the lees, is not therefore to be accompted neate 
bicause it was drawne of the same pcece. Or as the water that sprmgeth 
from the head and floweth into the filthy channel is not to 
be called cleere bicause it came of the same streame: so neither is he 
that descendcth of noble parentage, if he desist from noble decdes to be 
esteemed a Gentleman in that he issued from the loyns of a noble sire, for 
that he obscureth the parents he came off, and discredited! his owne estate. 


There is no Gentleman in Miens but sorrmveth to ;uv thy 
so far to disagree from thy birthe, for this say they ;1 (uhirh is the 
chiefest note of a gentleman) that; thou shouhicst ;u; \\ell desire fumeutir 
in thy life, as honor by thy linage: that thy nature -.houhl not ;;\\enu* 
from thy name, that: as thou by clutie woklwt be regarded for thy pr^eme, 
so thou wouldst eudeauour by deserts to be reuerenml tor thv fnetie, 

The pure Coral is chosen as wel by his vertue as his roulour, u kins* 
is known better by his courage, then his cnnvtie, a rij'.ht < Jemleman is 
sooner scene by the tryall of his vertue then bhwiiuj of his urwrii. 

But I let passe thy birth, wishing thee rather with I '/Aw to shew it 
in workes, then with Aiax to boast of it, with \\onls: thv M.uir ;hall 
not be the lesse, but thy modestie the greater, Thou Iwrsi in I/A/v/v, 
as the Waspe cloth among Bees, rather to stint'; then to \\.\i\irv llmmv, 
and thou dealest with most of thy ucquuintuuure an the I >ojw doth in 
the maungcr, who neither suifereth the horse to eat hay, nor vul hiw;t<liV, 
For thou being idle, wilt not permit any (us furre us in ther Iveth) to br 
well employed. Thou art an heyre to fuyrc lyuiuj,;, that in nothing, ti 
be disheritcd of learning, for better were it to thee to mhetitr jutht 
nesscthen riches, and far more seemely were it for thro to haue thv S 
full of bookcs, then thy pursse full of numy: to w*t woth in the h< 
of Fortune, to keepe them the gift of Wiaedouu*. AM therlnie thou an 
to possesse them by thy fathers wil, so art thou to eiui'ea%e them by 
thine owne wit. 

But alas, why desircst thou to haue the reueueuen of thy parent, 
and nothing regardest to haue his vertucs? Heekewt thou by ruuTcrininu 
to enioy thy patrimony, and by vice to obscure IUH pirtir? wilf lltou 
haue the title of his honour, and no touch of his howstic? Ali Ah'iu\ 
remember that thou art borne not to Hue after tlune uwn htiif, Inif tu 
learne to dye, wherby thou ntuiist Hue after thy death, I hauo o|'u*n 
heard thy father say, and that with a deepe si^h, the team* tru'lvliwi; iitnxnc 
his gray haires, that thy mother nexier longed more to huut* hrc lttrtie 
when she was in trauaile, then he to haue thee dead to ritl httn nl* trouhtt*, 
And not seldome hath thy mother wished, that either hir wniitln* hail 
bene thy graue, or the ground hirs. Yea> all thy irU'iutoM with tprn 
mouth, desire cither that God will send thee grace; to atuciut thy tilV 
or grief e to hasten thy death. 

Thou wilt demaund of me in what thou dost oitViui; ami I aikr 
thee in what thou doest not sinne, Thou nwearcnt thou art not euuefou:^ 
but I saye thou arte prodigail, and as much abmefh lie that luuinhdh 
without meane, as he that hoordeth without tucusurt!, Hut I'aunl thou 
excuse thy selfe of vice in that thou arte not couetoua? tvrttrinly uu 
more then the murtherer would therefore be guylt!k% bicaiiHt* he h 
no coyner. But why go I about to debate reason" with thee when thwi 
hast no regard of honestie? thou 1 leauc hecre to pcrsiwuite ihcc, yc*t 


will I not cease to pray for thee. In the meane season I desire thec, yea, 
and in Gods name commaund thce, that if neither the care of thy parents, 
whom thou shouldcst comfort, nor the counsaile of thy friends which 
thou shouldst credite, nor the rigour of the law which thou oughtest 
to feare, nor the authentic of the Magistrate, which thou shouldst 
reuerence, can allure thee to grace: yet the law of thy Sauiour who hath 
redeemed thee, and the punishment of the Almightic, who continually 
threatneth thee, should draw thce to amendcment, otherwise as thou 
liucst now in sinne, so shalt thou dye with shame, and rcmaine with 
Sathan. From whom he that made thce, kcepe thee. 

From "Endimion" 


SAMIAS. DARES, EPITON. (Three pages.) 

Saunas. Will thy master never awake? 

Dares. No, 1 think he sleeps for a wager: but how shall we spend 
the time? Sir Tophas is so far in love that he pincth in his bed, and 
conicth not abroad, 

$aniias. But here cometh Epi, in a pelting chafe. 

Jtyilon.A. pox of all false proverbs, and were a proverb a page, I 
would have him by the ears. 

Sawws. Why art thou angry? 

you know it is said, the tide tarricth no man. 

Kpiton.A. monstrous lie; for 1 was tied two hours, and tarried for 
one to unloose me. 

-Alas, poor Epi. 

Poor? No, no, you base-conceited slaves, I am a most 
complete gentleman, although I be in disgrace with Sir Tophas. 

Dares. Art thou out with him? 

Mptton.Ay, because I cannot get him a lodging with Endimion; he 
would fain take a nap for forty or fifty years. 

Dares. A short sleep, considering our long life. 

Sawias. h he still in love? 

Epi ton. In love? why he cloth nothing but make sonnets. 

Samias.-~ Canst thou remember any one of his poems? 

ttpiton.Ay, this is one. 

The beggar Love that knows not where to lodge: 
At last within my heart when I slept, 

He crept, 
I waked, and so my fancies began to fodgc. 


. That's a very long verse, 

Samias. That's a very long vcn*. ...,,, , , , 
JWton Why, the other was short, the first is ',!lol itom the thumb 
the little finger, the second from (lie Hide liir' 1" ''<' ''I 1 '"". :! 
ne he made to reach to Uw crown of his lu-.u!, ami .Imvit .U..HI. m tin- 
. nf V,; a frtntr it is set to the time of the lil.u-k S.imu'r, i.ilto /. I.e. .HIM- 



sole of his foot: it is set: to the tune 

Dipsas is a black saint. 

Barw, Very wisely, but pray thci\ Kpi, how art ihou <'owplru\ ,iml 

being from thy master what occupation vsllt tlwu ukr; 

Epiton. No, my hearts, i urn an absolute .U/Vw^w^, >\ juMtv wmhl 
of myself, my library is my head, for 1 have u*> othrr bnnks tmt my hums: 
my wardrobe on my back, for 1 have no wore appuirl ih.ui is uu my 
body; my armoury at my finger cncln, for 1 \\w n> ihn arftllriv tlian 
my nails; my treasure in my purse, AYf ;w/W ;mw wn i/w /^/^, 

Dares, -Good! 

Epiton. Now, sirs, my palace is paved \vith )tr;tn*s .uut tilnl uilh 
stars: for rocfo tegitur gut mm luitwt urmm* !u* that liatli no Imtj^r tmm 
lie in the yard. 

Samas. A brave resolution. But how wilt tlnm spnttl lh\ tiwr? 

Epiton,Noi in melancholy sort, for tuiue evcrt'ine I will uatk hnrnc-i, 

Dares.- Too bad. 

Epiton. Why, is it not said: It is good walking \\brn uitc hath hin 
horse in his hand? 

&v, and worse, but how wilt thmi live? 

Epiton.'By angling; 'tis a stately occupation to r.t.itut turn htmrn 
in a cold morning, and to have bis nose bitten with ft'unf brfarr hi-t It.tit 
be mumbled with a lish, 

Dares. A. rare attempt, but wilt thou never travel? 

Epiton. Yes, in a western barge, when with u gotid wind iiwl hmly 
pugs * one may go ten miles in two days, 

Stowz'rfj, -Thou art excellent at thy choice, hut whitt juritimr will 
thou use, none? 

Epiton.'YGs, the quickest of all 

Samias. What ! dice? 

Epiton.-^O) when I am in haste, one and twenty tfnww t t'ltces to 
pass a few minutes. 

Daw, A life for a little lord, and full of quiekneHH, 

Epiton.~-~~ Tush, let me alone! but J must needn see if I cm iimt whcrt? 
Endimion lieth; and then go to a certain fountain hard by, where they 
say faithful lovers shall have all things they will axk. If I run Jin* I <ait 
any of these, ego ct magister mms wimus in /w/^ t 1 ami my ituwccr wh 
be friends. He is resolved to weep sonic three to four paillulw to av 
the rheum of love that wambleth in his stomach, 

* Bargemen, 


(Enter the WATCH) 

Samias. Shall we never see thy master, Dares? 

Dares. Yes, let us go now, for to-morrow Cynthia will be there, 

E[)iton.I will go with you. But how shall we see for the 

Samias. ^ 'ush, let me alone! I'll begin to them. Masters, God speed 

1 Watch. Sir boy, we are all sped already. 

Epiton.-So methinks, for they smell all of drink like a beggar's beard. 
Dares. But I pray, sirs, may we see Endimion? 

2 Watch. No, we are commanded in Cynthia's name that no man 
shall see him. 

Samias.' No man? Why, we are but boys. 

1 Watch. Mass, neighbours, he says true, for if I swear I will never 
drink my liquor by the quart, and yet call for two pints, I think with 
a safe conscience I may carouse both, 

Dares. -Pithily, and to the purpose. 

2 Watch. Tnsh, tush, neighbours, take me with you. 
Sawias. This will grow hot. 

Dares. Let them alone. 

2 Watch. If I say to my wife, Wife, I will have no raisins in my 
pudding, she puts in currants, small raisins are raisins, and boys are 
men. Even as my wife should have put no raisins in rny pudding, so 
shall there no boys sec Endimion. 

Dares .Learnedly . 

Kpiton.Lut Master Constable speak: 1 think he is the wisest among 

Master Constable. 'You know, neighbours, 'tis an old said saw, 
Children and fools speak true, 

All Say, True. 

Master Constable. Well, there you sec the men be the fools, because 
it is provided from the children. 

Dares, Good. 

Master Constable. Then say 1, neighbours, that children must not 
see Endimion, because children and fools speak true, 

Kpiton.O wicked application! 

Samfas.Scurvily brought about! 

i Watch, --Nay, he says true, and therefore till Cynthia have been 
here he shall not be xmcovered. Therefore away! 

Dares, A watch quoth you? a man may watch seven years for a 
wise word, and yet go without it. Their wits are all as rusty as their 


Bird Songs 

What bird so sings, yet so doc; wail? 
0! 'tis the ravished nightingale, 
" Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereul" she crin, 
And still her woes at; umlnijhl rise, 
Brave prick-soup;! who is't now v>e hoar? 
None but the lark so shrill ;md clear; 
Now at heaven's gates she clap:; her win^s 
The morn not waking till she tunf*: 1 *, 
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat 
Poor robin redbreast; tunes hit; note! 
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sins,*,, 
" Cuckoo," to welcome in the sprm* 1 ;! 
" Cuckoo," to welcome in the spring! 

Cupid and Campas ; x fc 

Cupid and my Campaspe played 

At cards for kisses, Cupid paid; 

lie stakes his quiver, bow, anil arrows, 

His mother's doves, and team of npumm.v, 

Loses them too; then down he throw;; 

The coral of his Up, the rone 

Growing oil's cheek (but none knowis hm\); 

With these, the crystal of his brow* 

And then the dimple of Ins chin: 

All these did my Campaspc win, 

At last he set her both his eyes; 

She won, and Cupid blind did rim-, 

Love! has she done thin for ihec? 

What shall, alas! become of me? 



(? 1558-? 1597) 

GEORGK PKKLK was the son of the 
clerk of Christ's Hospital, an ahlc 
man with an expert knowledge of 
book-keeping, which he did not; 
transmit to his son, who was 
always amiably impecunious. Peele 
was educated at Christ's Hospital 
and at Broadgates Hall (now Pem- 
broke College), Oxford; he mi- 
grated, however, to Christ; Church, 
whence he graduated B.A. in 1577 
and M.A, in 1579. After leaving 
Oxford he led a Bohemian life in 
London, and was a friend of 
Greene, Nash, and Marlowe. He 
married, in 1583, a lady of pro- 
perty, but did not become any 
more sober in his mode of living, 
Little more is known of his life, 
but he died before September, 
1598, when the Reverend Francis 
Meres, in his Palladis Tamia, wrote 
brutally and euphuistically, " As 
Anacreon died by the pot, so 
George Peelc by the pox " There 
is some reason to believe that 
alliteration may have taken pre- 
cedence of truth in this statement. 
Some nine years after his death 
there appeared a collection of 
faeetitc entitled Mcmti conceited 
Jests of George Pccle. Some of 
these jests are much older than 
Peele, but some passages are bio- 
graphical. Upon one of these 
stories is bused The Puritan^ or the 
Widow of Waiting Street^ a play 
sometimes misattrilmted to Shake- 
speare. Its hero, George Pyeboard, 
is Peele himself (" peel " is a 
baker's board used for putting pies 
in the oven). 
Peek's pastoral comedy The 

of Parts appeared 
about 1581, It is a graceful play, 
full of skilful (lattery of Queen, 
Elizabeth. King 'Ihfwtird /' (to 
reduce its lengthy title to a reason- 
able compass) is a chronicle-history 
which misrepresents Queen Klinor 
because she was a Spaniard. Jt 
probably appeared soon after the 
defeat of the Armada, The Haltctt 
of /J/aiyar is a vigorous play which 
is probably by Peele. The Old 
Wives* Tale, is one of the most 
amusing of Pecle's plays. It is 
usually considered to be a skit 
upon romantic drama, and so a 
forerunner of The Knight of Ihe 
Ilurning Pestle\ but; some critics 
consider that it; exemplifies rather 
than satirizes a certain kind of 
folly. Milton derived more than a 
hint: or two from this play when 
writing Counts. The Lore of King 
David and Fair Bcthstibe (1588), a 
somewhat cloying play, owes its 
plot entirely to the Old Testament, 
and was probably written to con- 
ciliate puritan opposition to the 
drama, though it may well be 
doubted whether it succeeded in 
its well-mount endeavour, Fleay 
credits (or perhaps it would be 
more correct to say discredits) 
Peelc with the authorship of The 
Wisdom of Doctor Ihtttlifwl!, Wily 
Hcguifat, and The Life and Death of 
Jack tit raw* 

Peele had not the natural gifts 
that a dramatist should have; Kin 
very considerable gifts were purely 
poetical. Jle wrote plays simply to 
make a livelihood; lie hud no 
literary conscience, and something 


and he Iran a Buiten ; 7%, 1 1* * -/ /f 
real gift for musical effect. lfi K.t'lu-lUuul, A/MI/.- ," <**' 

A Sonnet 

His golden locks titnc luith to silver turuM; 

time too swift, vviftncs urvrr I-*MMIU'.! ^ 
His youth 'gainst time and aw hath CUT ^mnni. 

But spurn'cl in vain; youth waurili I*y cwtr.iriiw' 4 
Beauty, strength, youth, arc (loucr:; Uui t'.ulitut --rru 
Duty, faith, love, arc roots, aiul ever guru, 

His helmet now shall tmike a hive for Uvi, 

And lovers' sonnets turnM to holy j 
A man at arms must now nerve on lib 

And feed on prayers, which arc* ai^c hi'i 
But though from court to cottage he tU'juit, 

His saint is sure of his unspotted heart, 

And when he saddest aits in homely veil, 
Hell teach his swains this carol tor a :*MK; 

Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign \\rll, 
Curs'cl be the .souls that think her any wron^: 

Goddess, allow this aged muu liis ri^ht, 

To be your beadsman now that wan your ktuj*l*t 

From "The Araygnement of 

(Flora dresses Ida Hill, to honour the coining of I lit- 

Not Iris in her pride and bravery 

Adorns her Arch with such variety; 


Nor doth the Milk-white Way in Crusty nt^ 
Appear so fair and beautiful in sight. 


pirtiality of ;j Lima ,h, b nu, 

Nash CM I ,,m 


As done those fields, and groves, and sweetest bowers, 

Bestrewed and dcckM with parti-colour'd flowers. 

Along the bubbling brooks, and silver glide, 

That: at the bottom doth, in silence slide, 

The watery (lowers and lilies on the hanks 

Like blazing comets burgeon all in ranks; 

Under the hawthorn and the poplar tree, 

Where sacred Phoebe may delight to he: 

The primrose, and the purple hyacinth. 

The dainty violet, and the wholesome niintli; 

The double daisy, and the cowslip (queen 

Of summer flowers), do overpeer the green; 

And round about the valley as ye pass, 

Ye may no see (for peeping flowers) the grass. 

They are at hand by this, 

Juno hath left her chariot; long ago, 

And hath returned her peacocks by her rainbow: 

And bravely, as becomes the wife of Jove, 

Doth honour by her presence to our grove: 

Fair Venus she hath let her sparrows fly, 

To tend on her, and make her melody; 

Her turtles and her swans unyoked be, 

And flicker near her side for company: 

Pallas hath set her tigers loose to feed, 

Commanding them to wait when she hath need: 

And hitherward, with proud and stately pace, 

To do us honour in the sylvan chase, 

They march, like to the pomp of heaven above, 

Juno, the wife and sister of King Jove, 

The warlike Pallas, and the Queen of Love. 

(The Muses a,nd Country Girls assemble to welcome the Goddesses*) 


with country store like friends we venture forth. 

Phink'st, Faunus, that these goddesses will take our gifts in worth? 


May, doubtless; for, 'shall tell thce, dame, 'twere better give a thing, 
\ sign of love, unto a mighty person, or a king, 
Than to a rude and barbarous swain both bad and basely born: 
'for gently takes the gentleman that oft the clown will scorn. 




Olda, Oldu, Ida, happy hill! 

This honour done to Ida nny it continue mill 

Ye country gods, that in this Ida womie, 

*t/ ft * i 

Bring down your gifts of welcome* 
For honour done to Ida, 


Behold in sign of joy we tung, 
And signs of joyful welcome Inm t 
For honour done to Ida, 


The god of shepherds, ami lib mat en, 
With country cheer salutes your States; 
Fair, wise, and worthy, an you be! 
And thank the gracious Uuliivi Three* 
For honour done to Ida, 



Ocnoue, while we bin disposed to wail, 
Tell me, what shall be Kuhject of our vlll; 
Thou hast a sort of pretty *t;tlw in .more; 
'Dare say no nymph in klu'a \voud:; haiii mint 
Again, beside thy sweet alluring face, 
In telling them thou hunt a spcciul j'riur, 
Then prithee, sweet, ullbrd wmie pretty tttiw 
Some toy that from thy plciwuut wit timh upiVi 


Paris, my heart's contentujcat, and my rhtiu-e 
Use thou thy pipe, and I will UHC my Volt v ' ' 
bo shall thy just request not; be denied 
And time well-spent, and both be Hut'wiicd 




Well, gentle nymph, although them do me wrong, 

Tlint can nc tune my pipe unto a song, 

IVIe list: this once, Oemme, for thy sake, 

This idle task on me to undertake. [Th<y &t under a tree together. 

And whereon then shall be my roundelay? 

For thou hast heard my store long since, 'dare say 

I low Saturn did divide his kingdom tho* 

To Jove, to Neptune, and to l)is below; 

How mighty men made foul successless war 

Against the gods, and state of Jupiter: 

How Phorcyas' ympe, that was so trick and fair 

That tangled Neptune in her golden hair, 

Became a Gorgon for her lewd misdeed; 

A pretty fable, Paris, for to read; 

A piece of cunning, trust; me for the nonce, 

That wealth and beauty alter men to atones: 

How Salmaeis, resembling Idleness, 

Turns men to women all through wantonncs 1 : 

I low Pluto raught Queen Ceres' daughter thence, 

And what did follow of that love offence: 

Of Daphne turn'd into the laurel tree, 

That shows a mirror of virginity: 

How fair Narcissus, tooting * on his shade, 

Reproves disdain, and tells how form, doth vade: 

How cunning Philomela's needle tells, 

What force in love, what wit in sorrow, dwells: 

What pains unhappy souls abide in hell, 

They say, because on earth they lived not well, 

Ixion's wheel, proud TantaPs pining wo, 

Prometheus' torment, and a many moe; 

How Danaus* daughters ply their endless task; 

What toil the toil of Sysiphus doth ask. 

All these are old, and known, I know; yet, if thou wilt have any, 

Choose some of these; for. trust me else, Oenone hath not many. 


Nay, what thou wilt; but since my cunning not compares with, thine, 
Begin some toy that I can play upon this pipe of mine, 

* Looking 


My love can pipe, my love can 

My love can many a pretty thiuj^ 

And of his lovely praiacs ring 

My merry, merry, merry roundclavH, 

Amen to Cupid's Curse; 

They that do change old love for new 

Pray gods they change for worse, 


Fair, and fair, etc 
Fair, and fair, etc 



jre is a pretty sonnet then, we call it Cupid';; Curse*; 

hey that do change old love for new, pray ftmh I hry rh.rn^r for \\ 



Fair, and fair, and twice ,so l\\h\ 
As fair as any may he, 
The fairest shepherd on our f*rccn, 

A love for any lady, 


Fair, and fair, ami tvvur HO fair. 
As fair as any may lx\ 
Thy love Ls fair for then alom\ 
And for no other lady, 


My love is fair, my love k j;uy, 
And fresh as bin the flowm in iM,u\ 
And of my love my roundelay* 
My merry, merry, merry roundelay. 
Concludes with Cupid's" Cure; 
They that do change old love for new, 
Pray gods they change for \\orse, 


Fair, and fair, etc, 
Fair, and fair, etc, 



(c. 1560-- 1592) 

ROBERT GREENE was born at Nor- 
wich of parents who were several 
degrees more respectable than him- 
self. He was educated at St. John's 
College, Cambridge, where he 
graduated B.A. in 1578, and where 
he made friends with men as grace- 
less as himself. After travelling in 
Spain and Italy, where he practised 
" such villainie as is abhominable 
to declare J \ he returned to Cam- 
bridge and migrated to Clare Hall, 
graduating MA. in 1583 and in- 
corporating at Oxford in 1588. In 
or about 1583 he went to London, 
and commenced his precarious 
career as playwright and pam- 
phleteer, a career which was sadly 
interrupted by his sordid profligacy. 
About 1585 he married, but de- 
serted his wife after he had spent 
her money and she had borne him 
a son. His miserable life was 
rendered more miserable by fre- 
quent fits of repentance. He died 
at the age of thirty- two, and his 
death-scene is one of the most 
memorable in literary history 

*/ h/ 

indeed it reads more like a passage 
from one of tola's novels than a 
true story. His death was caused 
by a surfeit of Rhenish wine and 
pickled herrings. As he lay dying 
he wrote for help to his wife, whom 
he had left six years before. Some 
writers have stated that Greene 
was a clergyman, but though there 
were great discrepancies in his life, 
there was no discrepancy as great 
as that. Greene had many faults , 
but hypocrisy was not one of them; 
he could not have concealed the 
fact that he was in holy orders, if 

he had been. In a well-known 
epigram Martial boasted that " His 
page was wanton, but his life was 
chaste ". This saying might be 

reversed and applied to Greene. 
His life was profligate, but his 
writings singularly pure for that 
age. His chief plays are Alphomus 
King of Arragon, an echo of' Tamer - 
kme; Orlando Fur ioso\ The Honour- 
abk History of Friar Bacon and 
Friar Siwgay, probably written to 
rival Dr. Fau$tus\ and The Scottish 
History of James IV, slain at 
Flodden, This last play belies its 
name, as it is not a chronicle-play, 
Imt a dramatisation of a story 
found in Cinthio's Ilecatomnuthi, 
the collection from which Shake- 
speare drew the plot of Othello. 
Greene, in fact, introduced real 
characters into a fictitious story, 
just as in mid- Victorian days T. W. 
Robertson did when writing David 
Garrtck, Greene was not an all- 
accomplished dramatist, but he 
drew characters with some clever- 
ness, and developed his plots with 
no little success, 

Greene's romances, pamphlets, 
and .miscellaneous writings may be 
divided into three dasscseuphuis- 
tic, cony-catching, and penitential, 
Of the first class the most famous 
is Pandas to (1588), also known as 
Doras'tus and Fawn la ^ because it is 
the direct source of The Winter's 
Talc, and of Shakespeare's geo- 
graphical knowledge of Bohemia. 
PcrlnmJes the Machmith (1588), 
Mentiphon (1589), and Phtlomda 
(1592) are other members of this 
class, it is doubtful whether the 

exposing the ways of trans^twuur., <}trrnr\ pin.,- \Mihn -, 

or merely to put money in flit* (itvur 44 4 nutn intluttnl f| H * 

author's pocket. They arc awusiw; f,r-btnn; fir imitate, 1 I Uv atul 

productions, the Disfutftitiun fa* '\l,i?h\u\ 4ti*l \rf Kr 4Mn! bt, u\ui 

/zom* # llc-duny-dntchcr <tttd <t t'ontuhuftMn , M4>r ami drlii^uv 

She-Ctiiiy-Catclwr lieinj,; perhaps fur.uh Junta, th 1 vur, jtn;i in 

the best, 'The penitential pant" hin htr, 4u*t -Jutnt Sti Tibv 

phleta are the work of hi:; last davs, Urh'h';* ta'-ir- \*\\ pt* IJ^.l hrniit<*" tn 

i ' j ****'#,< i^ 

In one of them, (trcenc^ fV(//,v- a food \Un h at "inr a'/^utrd 

wor/A r;/" II"7/ he attacked Shake- apprfiir ,titd piM^nLr*! \l\\\\\, tltit, 

spcare as u an upstart crow", Many likr 4 ^HMfrt fittn ^ii' Tuln^ ;ti' 

critics have been unable to forgive tiinr; In* M l4ih!r,l t ;MTU lu-ld-i '* 

Greene for tins attack; but win;*; and .shm\nl iatu.dt, 4iuti ihr 

that Shakespeare developed late :*<jualnr i lu-i '.utttituhu'.v^ 4 tiur 

and had written little of outstanding port i the nuuin Mttr," 

merit before Greene died, it is nut |Kdifiwi In \ ( H, titM-iau, | 

to be wondered at; that (Jivcno (liuimn 1 \lhu s -tal T, 1 1, lh*Kiti. 

failed to foresee Shakespeare 1 ;; mm; ], r, |it*Lt;i ( It^hut f/;vm 

3ephevStiti\s Sontr to her ( Ihiht 

Weep not, juy wanton, jitnilc* upon uiv li\a\ 
Wben thou art old thciv'ji j'.iid rn*u^l ! tit. r. 
Mother's wat^ pretty hn\, 
Fatlier'n Morrcnv, f'atitrt'-i juv, 
When thy father li*M di4 MV 
Such a IHJV hy him and iac% 
He \\ats j;lail, 1 \vau unc, 
Fortune clian^nl utadr hint ?, 
When he left bin pivtiv luiy 
Last bin sorrow, firs.i hit, j, v , 

Weep not, my wanton, mnk upon mv kntv, 
When thou art old thereA; W ricl riuitj^h bit U,, V( 
Streaming teaw that ut*\i*r ttiut, 

Like pearl tlrop^finnt ;t tlitit ( 
Fell by course from hin ryru, 
For one suiothr' pla^c hiipnfir^i 

^M 4 ^ ft * (r 

Ihua he grievM in every jurt, 
Team of blood fell fmm lib luMrt, 
When he left 1H pretty hoy, 

Fathers sorrow, father V 


Weep not, my \\anlon, smile upon my knee, 
When thou art old there *s f^rief enough for tluv, 

The \\anton smilM, father \\ept, 

Mother ened, baby leapt; 

More he ero\\M, more \ve cruxl, 

Nature eotild not sorrow hide; 

lie must f<o, he must kiss 

Child ami mother, baby bless, 

For he left his pretty hoy. 

Father's r.orrow, father's joy* 

H' # 

Weep not, my wanton, smile tipon my knee, 
When thoti ait old there's f^rief enough tor thce. 

(From HfetM 

Doron's Description of Saincla 

hike to Diana in her summer 

(till with u erimr.on rnbc of hrh'jitesit tlye, 

tt ^ ^v f 

< Joos fair Samela; 
\\hiter thati be the (Inekt; that strai>y ( linj>; feed, 

\\ hen washM by Aretluuna (ouiti they lie. 

' ' * 

Is fair Samela; 

As fair Aurora in her morning grey, 
l)eek*d with the ruddy Blister of her love, 

!M fair Hamela; 
Like lovely Thetw on a ealmed tlav, 

<f fc' * 

WUeuati her brightness NeptuneVi fancy movt), 

Shi new fair Hamela; 

Her tres.nen gold, her eyes like /jjluttsy stauun 
Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory 

Of fair Samela; 

Her eheeb t like rase, and lily, yield forth gleams, 
Her brows* bright juvhcM Irani VI of ebony; 

Tlum fair Haiucla 

Faseth fair Vcuttsiu her bravest hue, 
And Juno in the nhow of majesty, 

J ( "or lic' Samela; 

Pullas in wit, all three, if you \voll view, 
I^or beauty, wit, and matchless* dignity 

Yield to Samela. 

(I'rom Mcnaplion.) 
n, :6 


T ; ie S"icp; f| icni/s Wife's S 

Ah, what iit IWT? If iri .t fnrtu fhtn',% 
As sweet tmt<> ;i :;h<<plK'i'il .1 i ;t Kiti>; 

Ami rAMTfrt tun, 

For kiufts have cam; that \\aif upmi a * f 

And cares e;w m;tl\e ihr :;\\rrtf".f l\r IM 

Ah thru, ;th flirti 

If country loves sudt %\\crt *!*', itri il s 
What livel \vouhl not ln\r ,i --Itrphr^l '.\\.ut 

Ilia flock an* foklnl, hr vtMur * hnsur 4? 

As merry as ;v ktiii* in hi-; i 


For kinjjs hctluak them \vlutf fhr 'i,itr r| 
Whore atu'pherito cuH'lr i .!i tar*l Uv ihr ht 

Ah ilitni s ah tlirsi, 

If anintry lov-cr* rau r !i %\\rri Jr 4fr\ *t<* ^,u 
What lutly \vouhl not ln\r a :Ju-|*!in*t ;a\,u 

I To kwscih iirjit, then J-UIH an dlitlir tn *Mf 

lib cream ami curtln, ;i:i tlnth tttr Kitu^ lit . 

Altit 14ill*rr CMM, 

For kings lum* often frant \vlu*u thrv il M 
Where sheplutnl^ tlrc;ul no ju*i'.m in liirit 

All tttt*fl t iih thru, 

If country IOVCH such twcrt tlcaivi *l* tt-ui 
What kuly would not love u :ihqtlivul -Aw 

To bed he gocn, UH \viintun tint, I \\rru, 
As is a king in ctullhuuv vuth ;i i 

More tt, 

Por kings have nutny wwM ull 
Where shepherds have r j'.murr iuH' tltari 

Ah ihen, ;th Utnt, 

If country loves nuch nwwi drMren ib |ntii4 
What lady would not love u ,slu*|tlunl 

Upon his couch of straw he hU'cpw an umttitt t 
As doth the king upon his titda of aw; 


For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill, 
Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill: 

Ah then, ah then, 

If country loves such sweet desires do gain, 
What lady would not love a shepherd swain? 

Thus with his wife he spends the year, as blithe 
As doth the king at every tide or sith; 

And blither too, 

For kings have wars and broils to take in hand, 
When shepherds laugh and love upon the land: 

Ah then, ah then, 

If country loves such sweet desires do gain, 
What lady would not love a shepherd swain? 

(From The Mourning Garment.} 

From "Dorastus and Fawnia" 

In the country of Bohemia, there reigned a king called Pandosto, 
whose fortunate success in wars against his foes, and 'bountiful courtesy 
towards his friends in peace, made him to be greatly feared and loved 
of all men. This Pandosto had to wife a lady called Beliaria, by birth royal, 
learned by education, fair by nature, by virtues ruinous, so that it was 
hard to judge whether her beauty, fortune, or virtue won the greatest 
commendations. These two, linked together in perfect love, led their 
lives with such fortunate content that their subjects greatly rejoiced to 
see their quiet disposition. They had not been married long, but "Fortune, 
willing to increase their happiness, lent them a son, so adorned with the 
gifts of nature, as the perfection of the child greatly augmented the love 
of the parents and the joy of their commons; in so much that the 
Bohemians, to show their inward joys by outward actions, made bonfires 
and triumphs throughout all the kingdom, appointing jousts and tourneys 
for the honour of their young prince: whither resorted not only his 
nobles, but also divers kings and princes which were his neighbours, 
willing to show their friendship they ought to PamKsto, and to win 
fame and glory by their prowess and valour. Pandosto, whose mind was 
fraught; with princely liberality, entertained the kings, princes, and 
noblemen with such submiss courtesy and magnificat bounty, that they 
all saw how willing he was to gratify their good wills, making a general 
feast for his subjects, which continued by the space of twenty days; all 
which time the jousts and tourneys were kept to the great; content both 
of the lords and ladies there present, This solemn triumph being once 
ended, the assembly, taking their leave of Pandosto and Beliaria, the 



young son, who vuw called Oariutcr, was imr,;nl up in ihr hmr.r to i| H > 
great joy and content of the parents* 

Fortune envious of such happy .smvt:;s, wilbu- to -.\\t\\\ :^n\c ^ n 
of her inconstancy, turned her wheel, ami tlatKmol ihnr lui-ht sun 
of prosperity with the misty clouds of inislup ami miM'iv, For it <, 
happened that Kgistus, king of Sit-iliiK who in hi-, \nuib lul lmi I'nnu^ht 
up with Pandosto, desirous to show that neither li.u t ot Umo nor ilt'itautv 
of place could diminish their former IwuUiip, junuilnl a u.uv of 
ships and sailed into Bohemia to visit fun oM innul and fomjuninii, 
who, hearing of his arrival, went himnrlf in per inn ami tin \\iir IMI.iria, 
accompanied with a great train of lords and LubV; to ittrrf t^i-at^; ami 
espying him, alighted from his horw, tiuhrauHl him xnv lo 
protesting that nothing in the world eoukl have lupprunl tuujr m 
to him than his coining, wishing hi wiiV to urlromr his nh! tuet 
acquaintance: who, to show how she liknl him uhom Itrt 1m .h UM! ovott, 
entertained him with such familiar court env as Iv^ prnrunl tuitrtrlt 
to be very well, welcome, After they h;ul lints ;;ilnfcnl ami rjuhutM'd c,t\ h 
other, they mounted again on horseback uwl nul* tiv\,utl ihr ^ it\ , d<n i-iiu-*, 
and recounting how being children they had juvuM flu-it vufh us hi*n>tl\ 
pastimes: where, by the means of tlir citi/ntrk, ! ; ^i"4ii'* \\a-* tnri\rk! 
with triumphs and shows, in stich soil that hr nurxrlleil ho\\ on '*u Mn.ilt 
a warning they could make Huch prepanitiuu, 

Passing the streets, thus, with tuu'h rare sv'Jii'*, llirv nntr *n to ihr 

palace, where Pandosto entertained JvLstus antl hi 3 * Siuliau-i \ufli ,mh 

banqueting and stmiptnous cheer, tu royally as thc*v alt ha*i * au-*r SM 

commend his princely liberality; yea, thr verv !MMV*I stavt* tlut \vin 

known to come from Hicilhi was used with mu'U *'MIM*'A (lut l ! !tti*4ui 

might easily perceive how both he and his uerr bonuumt Jtn hi-i uirtul'% 

sake, Bcllaria, who in her time \VUH tbe l!tn\r' nl tfutir%v \\illiuj* tti 

show how unfciguedly H!IC loved her Imnhaud by hi't iuriid*% ^titri uiwurnt, 

used him likewise so familiarly tlutt her eoumcuaucr !H-\Mavcl hn\\ tin 

mind was affected towards him, oftentimes vommft brr^ll tufa hin brl 

chamber to see that nothing should be amm to mnlikr Ititn, Thrt fitur:i{ 

familiarity increased daily more and more bri\\i\t tUt*w; lv Ikltiria, 

noting in Egistus a princely and bountiful mind, adunird \\tfb wwtirv 

and excellent qualities, and KgiHtiw, Ihulinj*; iu her ;i urnum-* ;u*t 

courteous disposition, there grew aueh eeret unifiit|f ut" fhtnr attntiftiw, 

that the one could not well be without tin* company ot i\w oihn: in 

so much, that when Pandoato wan Inisicd with jitu'h' ui)r$ti allaiffi that 

he could not be present with his friend Hiatus, llrlhiiii \\uttU! ualk with 

him into the garden, where they two iu private umt pttM^ut ilrvivcu 

would pass away the time to both their content*. Tbiti enstom milt ,'tw- 

tmuing betwixt them, a certain melancholy puaniou ^ritfiin^ die mimi 

of Pandosto drave him into sundry and doubtful thim^u*.' Kirnt, he 


called to mind the beauty of his wife Bellaria, the comeliness and bravery 
of his friend Egistus, thinking that love was above all laws and, therefore, 
to be stayed with no law; that it was hard to put fire and flax together 
without burning; that their open pleasures might breed his secret dis- 
pleasures. He considered with himself that Egistus was a man and must 
needs love, that his wife was a woman and, therefore, subject unto love, 
and that where fancy forced friendship was of no force. 

These and such like doubtful thoughts, a long time smothering in 
his stomach, began at last to kindle in his mind a secret mistrust, which, 
increased by suspicion, grew at last to a flaming jealousy that so tormented 
him as he could take no rest. lie then began to measure all their actions, 
and to misconstrue of their too private familiarity, judging that it was 
not for honest affection, but for clisordinate fancy, so that he began to 
watch them more narrowly to sec if he could get any true or certain proof 
to confirm his doubtful suspicion. While thus he noted their looks and 
gestures and suspected their thoughts and meanings, they two silly souls, 
who doubted nothing of tins his treacherous intent, frequented daily 
each other's company, which drave him into such a frantic passion, that 
he began to bear a secret hate to Egistus and a louring countenance to 
Bellaria; who, marvelling at such unaccustomed frowns, began to cast 
beyond the moon, and to enter into a thousand sundry thoughts, which 
way she should olTcncl her husband: but finding in herself a clear 
conscience ceased to muse, until such time as she might find fit opportunity 
to demand the cause of his dumps. In the meantime Pandosto's mind 
was so far charged with jealousy, that he did no longer doubt, but was 
assured, as lie thought, that his friend Kgistus had entered a wrong point 
in his tables, and so had played him false play: whereupon, desirous 
to^ revenge so great: an injury, he thought best to dissemble the grudge 
with a fair and friendly countenance, and so under the shape of a friend 
to show him the trick of a foe. Devising with himself a long time how 
he might bust put: away Kgistus without suspicion of treacherous murder, 
he concluded at last to poison him; which opinion pleasing his humour 
he became resolute in his determination, and the better to bring the 
matter to pass he called unto him his cupbearer, with whom in secret 
he brake the matter, promising to him for the performance thereof to 
give him a thousand crowns of yearly revenues. 

The manner of the death and last end of 

ROBERT GREENE Maister of Aries 

After that he had pond the former discourse (then lying sore sicke 
of a smrfet which lice had taken with drinking) hoc continued most 
patient and penitent; yea, he did with tcarcs forsake the world, renounced 

aim v*vm 

so that during all the time of hin Mdutr.^ fuhu h v,a .ih.w 4 

space) hcc was neuer heard to nueare, uur, m N.t.phrmr flu* nam 

of (Joel as ho \V,ts ncnwUmted to dn brlotr th.if fwte, ubtth ide 

comforted his wehvlllers, to wv h<n\ uw;hulv the r.ut r *! t ;. u l did wn 

in him, 

lie coufoHsed IntnscltV that !u* \\.i-i lu-urr IMMI! f ,i Kr, hut s.itd that ,il 
his painc was iu his hclly, And .tlthfjut^h lu* <tnfiuii4lK' -.utvurti, vrt 
still his holly s\vehl ;uul nrurr Irft ii\\rlliun ^psun'il, \n\\l\ it ,,urld him 
at the hart and in his face, 

During the whole time* of IUM jiuiiu"*, h* routihiulh * allrd \\^n\ i i(ul t 
and recited these H 

Lnni fnrtfiiw /m* my wwtfM H//>. r-\. 
/^n/ hauc w/'w'f* ;/ *;* w**, 

Lnnt fnr$[iiic We 1 wv .w/r/ ,\mws, a/ iw //n f m'/. 
(Lnnl) frmtutt //ir 

77/v w/w (O /^,ir/) /\ 

And with such like godly scufnur:; hrr jM'iM*l ftu ttntr, rtiru lilt 
he gauc vp the (Jlunst, 

And tins is to hcc tioicil, that hi-i {mktiri'.r did MM! :,M iMMtlv nr.ikrn 
him, but that lie walked to \m dtairr A t,u-k<* ;r,%tiur thr iiiidii hrlnrr 
he departed, and thcu (hdnj* fcrblc) lavttr: liitu il*wur tn hr* l*r.t, ah 
nine of the docke at ni^hi, a frieiui ni' his tuldr him. thai hi-* \Viir tu 
scat him comincndatioiw, and ttmt jiher was in ^md hralth- \\hnrai tie 
greatly reioiecd, coufoscd that lie Itad mightily \\mn\n^l hn, .uut \\i-ihnl 
that hcc might see her before he derailed," \\linrij|m lt-rttit^ hi:* 
time was but ahort), hoe (ooke JHHI arnl inke, ^ \\mtr hrt 4 Lrfirt nV ihi:i 

Sweet Wife, us euer there was an\ jnl 
betweeue thce and mee, nee thin hearer (my Ho-.i) i'n 
of his debt, I owe him tame pound, ;iml Imt lur hu I lud 
perished in the treete, l'orct and Inrinttr mv 
done vnto thcc, and Almighty Owl luttir mm i 
my soule. hurewetl till we inert in hrmm, 
for on earth them uhult uctu-r 
see me more. Thw 4, of 
September t 

Written by th 


(? 1558-1625) 

THOMAS LODGE was the son of a 
Lord Mayor of London, and grand- 
son of Sir William Laxton, the 
founder of Oiindle School. He was 
educated at Merchant Taylors' 
School, and at Trinity College, 
Oxford, where he graduated B.A. 
in 1577 and M.A. in 1581. He was 
entered at Lincoln's Inn, but 
abandoned a legal for a literary 
career, with intervals of adventure 
and voyaging. He was never an 
actor, as was at one time believed. 
After a short experience of soldier- 
ing, he sailed to the Canaries in 
1588; in 1591 he accompanied 
Cavendish to South America. About 
1596 Lodge abandoned literature 
as a profession and began to study 
medicine, graduating M.I), at 
Avignon in 1600 and at Oxford in 
1602. Some time about 1600 he 
became a Roman Catholic, and 
the last twenty years or so of his 
life appear to have been chiefly 
devoted to the practice of medi- 
cine, principally among his fellow- 
religionists, lie died of plague in 

Lodge was a man of tireless 
energy and immense versatility. 
He wrote pamphlets, novels, plays, 
poems, sonnets, satires, translations, 
and medical works. In some of his 
pamphlets he crossed swords with 
Stephen Gosson, and defended 
plays and players against that 
redoubtable antagonist. I Us own 
plays are neither numerous nor 

important; he collaborated with 
Greene to write A Looking Classc 
for London and England (1591), a 
curious but inartistic piece; liis 
only other play is The Wounds of 
Cwill War (1587), a heavy play 
dealing with Marius and Sulla. 
The best known of Lodge's ro- 
mances is Rosalynde: Euphues 9 
Golden Legacie, which he wrote to 
relieve the tedium of his voyage to 
the Canaries. Shakespeare after- 
wards dramatized this romance 
under the name of As You Like It. 
His other romances include Euphues 9 
Shadow and A Margarile of America. 
Lodge's plays are poor, and his 
romances more interesting histori- 
cally than intrinsically; but his 
poems, especially his short songs, 
arc exquisite, among the best of his 
clay. Claucus and Scilla t a more 
ambitious effort, perhaps inspired 
Shakespeare to write Venus and 
Adonis. Lodge abandoned imagi- 
native writing about 1596, though 
in his medical days he translated 
Josephus and Seneca and wrote a 
Treatise of the Plague. As a literary 
man bis desire outran his per- 
formance ; but he will always be 
remembered as the inspircr of one 
of the most charming of Shake- 
speare's comedies and as the author 
of some of the daintiest songs in 
the language. 

[Sir Kclnuind Gossc, Seventeenth 
Ntudiw, M. E, N. Fraacr, 

Thomas Lode as a Dm ma list, 

24 THOMAS 1,01 it ,T, 

From "Rosnlvtulc: Munlmt'x" 

J 1 it 

Golden Lrgnrie 11 

The H'mf //;//; M tit fit 

At last, when the tournament eo;isnl, iho \ur.tlitu* !n;.m, ,tjj,| f| lr 
Norman presented himself as it ehallen^er a'Mttr.t all umri'. luji j, 
looked like Hercules when lie adunerd hini'.rlt .i^iiu.f \i lulu-i",, tV * 
that the fury of his count<inunec;uu;i/etl all tlut I!WM uttnup? i*> r m ottjifcr 
with him in any deed of activity: fill at l.tM a Itr-tv li.wUm nf thr mitmn 
came with two tall mm that were lib M>n^ o! j>unj luuMntrut 1 , ,utd 
comely personage, The eldest of <lm^ Its-, nIi-i..ttiM- in tin- linn 
entered the lust, and prcstiitetl hiuu.eli' t* the \*nuan, \\lin r.u.n h( 
coped with him, and ;us a man that \\uuhl (t-iiuuph ui fit* 1 ',lu\ i hi% 
strength, roused himself with sueli fury, fhaf u<t onU la- :,,nr hmi fhr 
fall, but killed him witli (he weight nf lih eoipulrttt inn'.nn.v^: \\Iu|j 
the younger brother seein,u', leapetl pmiently ititu the- pl, M r, ,iu.( thii-.h 
after the revenge, assailed the Xornwn uifh Mu'h \ t tlMn, fiut , f| sr 
first encounter he brought him to hh kneev, uhith rpi>I..-l -,u fhr 
Norman, that, recovering himself, tear of ii;;ji,utr ltiulliu?: iir. ; k tirmth, 
he stepped so sternly to the youn^ franklin, that ul\u\> him up in hi! 
arms he threw him against the ground wt vinltMitl\, fliai hr hrnlr hr* 
neck, and so ended his days with his ha.iher, At ilu-. luilu^Lr.l | f ,r 
massacre the people murmured, and wore all in a il*rp p,,..,u uf pit\; 
but the franklin, father unto ihese l never dun-ed ln>, iHiinfnum^ 
but as a man of a courageous rcHolmimt tonk up ilir IuuIu- nt hi-, Mm-! 
without show of outward discontent. 

All this while stood Rosader and aw ilii-i h;rnl\; uh... tiu(in r the 
undoubted virtue of the franklin's mlmi, ali^hred nil hum hi, lii,,*- 
and presently sat down on the jr ra!W| ; l!H | oiumwutlrd hi-i lux t., imtl 
ott h ls boots making him ready to try the ^trni^ih nt thi% ilutnpinn, 
Being furnished us he would, he clapped (he iuuUm nu ihr r.liMuldet- 
and said thus: 

" Bold yeoman, whose .sons have endat the trim of their W H with 
honour, for that 1 sec Hum aeorneHt fortune wiih iiiieiur, .nut 

C Wkh COUlCUt in hmoki " 

A i , u 

then fall with an honourable triumph;* 

frklll a ^"W" t" ^ve him ntu- 


of heaven; but at last, Love, willing to make him as amorous as he was 
valiant, presented him with the sight of Rosalynde, whose admirable 
beauty so inveigled the eye of Rosadcr, that forgetting himself, he stood 
and fed his looks on the favour of Rosalynde's face; which she perceiving 
blushed, which was such a doubling of her beauteous excellence, that 
the bashful red of Aurora at the sight of unacquainted Phaeton, was 
not half so glorious. 

The Norman seeing this young gentleman fettered in the looks of 
the ladies, dravc him out of his memento with a shake by the shoulder. 
Rosader looking back with an angry frown, as if he had been wakened 
from some pleasant dream, discovered to all by the fury of his countenance 
that he was a man of some high thoughts: but when they all noted his 
youth and the sweetness of his visage, with a general applause of favours, 
they grieved that so goodly a young man should venture in so base an 
action; but seeing it were to his dishonour to hinder him from his 
enterprise, they wished him to be graced with the palm of victory. After 
Rosader was thus called out of his immcnlo by the Norman, he roughly 
clapped to him with so fierce an encounter, that they both fell to the 
ground, and with the violence of the fall were forced to breathe; in which, 
space the Norman called to mind by all tokens, that this was he whom 
Saladync had appointed him to kill; which conjecture made him stretch 
every limb, and try every sinew, that working his death he might recover 
the gold which so bountifully was promised him, On the contrary part, 
Rosader while he breathed was not idle, but still cast his eye upon 
Rosalynde, who to encourage him with a favour, lent him such an 
amorous look, as might have made the most coward desperate: which 
glance of Rosalyncle so fired the passionate desires of Rosader, that 
turning to the Norman he ran xipon him and braved him with a strong 
encounter. The Norman received him as valiantly, that there was a 
sore combat, hard to judge on whose side fortune would be prodigal. 
At; last Rosader, calling to mind the beauty of his new mistress, the 
fame of his father's honours, and the disgrace that should fall to his 
house by his misfortune, roused himself and threw the Nunmm against 
the ground, falling upon his chest with so willing a weight, that the 
Nornutn yielded nature her clue, and Rosader the victory. 

The death, of this champion, as it; highly contented the franklin, 
as a man satisfied with revenge, so it: drew the king and all the peers into 
a great: admiration, that so young years and so beautiful a personage 
should contain such martial excellence; but when they knew him to 
be the youngest son of Sir John of Bordeaux, the king rose from his 
seat; and, embraced him, and the peers entreated him with all favourable 
courtesy, commending both his valour and his virtues, wishing him to 
go forward in such haughty deeds, that be ini^ht: attain to the glory of 
his father's honourable fortunes. 

Rosalviulf's Matlni>'al 


Love in mv ho,.ow like a !<* 

Doth Kijtk his sueet; 
Now with hi;* wiw*.' IK* P'' !V * ulf}l mr 

Now uith hi** ieoi, 

Within mine e\en he uuU hi-. ti-.t, 
llwk'vl amulM fuv I'tr4-f; 
My kls.son arr hi-i tliiU h\i,t, 
And vi*t lu* rnhs inr oi sin tr-4, 

All, wanton, will u\ 

And if I sloop, thru ju'ichnh hr 

\VithprrftY Hipjit, 
And nutkrs hin pilhm *U' uiv Kt*r 

Tin* Hvrlnntt uh:ttt, 
Strike I my luu\ hr tuiuv; fhr -.tuu^ 


He nutsic pl;iyn if tin I '.iiuti 
lie lends nu* rvrr\ luvrh thwr, 
Yet cmrl lio inv hrail duth Niiiu*, 


\Vhisi, wanton, nfill y^! 

Bine I with rosos rvrr\ <Liv 

Will \vhip you hcttrt\ 
And bind \HU, \\itrn yttu louj* t*> p 

ln)f your ollVurr; 

I'll shut iniuo even tn keep you in* 
I'll imike you fast it t'ttr your ;iu. 
I'll count your power not worth ;t 
Alas, whul horcly shull t win, 

If he UiUMu nu:? 

What if 1 beat the wanton hciy 

With many si rod? 
lie will repay me with annoy, 

Because a Cod, 

Thau sit them safety on my knee, 
And let thy bower my boom In*; 
Lurk in mine cycn, I like of 
Cupid, BO them pity me, 

Spare not but play thct*, 


Montanus's Sonnet 

Phoebe sate, 
Sweet she sate, 

Sweet sate Phoebe when I saw her; 
White her brow, 
Coy her eye: 

Brow and eye how much you please me! 
Words I spent, 
Sighs I sent: 

Sighs and words could never draw her. 

my love, 
Thou art lost, 

Since no sight could ever ease thee. 

Phoebe sat 
By a fount; 

Sitting by a fount I spied her: 
Sweet her touch, 
Rare her voice: 

Touch and voice what may distain you? 
As she sung 

1 did sigh, 

And by sighs whilst that 1 tried her, 
O mine eyes! 
You did lose 

Her first sight whose want did pain you. 

Phoebe's flocks, 
While as wool: 

Yet; were Phoebe's locks more whiter, 
Phoebe's eyes 
Dove! ike mild: 

Dovclikc eyes, both mild and cruel. 
Montau swears, 
In your lumps 

lie will die for to delight her. 
Phoebe yield, 
Or 1 die: 

Shall true hearts be fancy's fuel? 


Rosa A'lKilc/s I )rscnpti< MI 

** i 

Like to thr in hir!<- ,\ . 

Where ail unpetul "Inf, ih 
t i - 

Ol'iielt'iume oiottf t* hri luti 
Whether tmi^Mni in f w 
IIrith ho, I\M ,.ihtn!< 
HIT <*t*s .uv 'iaftin- , a-f u? 

Aiul I do ttvtuUr \\hrn 1 

i^ii hu, \\titjK! 'Ju* 1 \\rt 

Her eheeloi are like 

That heatiiiiin \ufuf ,i k 
Or like tin* silver mmvm 


Hnj'h ho, Mr KM,, 

Her lips are iikr t\u l\n 
Whom rank", it!' hhr; tiri^jtiM 

Within whieh tumfuh ;Itr I,ihu v^i !^ t - 
Apt to cwU'e 4 deitv: 

Heigh ho, uoiild filir urn/ tttutr, 

Her neck, Hie u u Mati'ly |tun 

Where Lo\e hiwM'Ii' init 
To watch for ^laiu*i;i rvrr\ 
Frcnn hor (livtur ami vtnvil r\r-. 

Uci^h ho, fair Ho;itl\ulc, 
Her papn arc mitre; ot 

Where nature ninuhlM tlu* ctrvv jj h. : ! t | 

To feed pcrfVrtitm with ilw *,.!; 
Heigh ho, wmthl slu* V\MV tmur, 

With orient pearl, with nily ml, 

With marble white, with napphir- h 
Her body every way in fVil, 

Yet soft in touch" and .swwt in vlnv: 

Heigh ho, fair Utmalyudt*. 
Nature herself her .shape atlmiwi, 

The gods arc wounded iu her wi K ht 


And Love forsakes his heavenly fires 
And at her eyes his brand doth light: 
Heigh ho, would she were mine. 

Then muse not, nymphs, though I bemoan 

The absence of fair Rosalyndc, 
Since for her fair there is fairer none, 

Nor for her virtues so divine: 

Heigh ho, fair Rosalyndc. 
Heigh ho, my heart, would God that she were mine! 

( 1567 - 1 60 1 ) 

THOMAS NASH was born at Lowe- 
stoft in 15^7, and was the son of a 
minister. As the Reverend William, 
Nash chose scriptural names (Na- 
thaniel, Israel, Rebecca, Martha) 
for his other children, it; is likely 
that he was a Puritan; hence, in 
all probability, arose his Bohemian 
son's antipathy to Puritanism. Nash 
was educated at St. John's College, 
Cambridge, which he dutifully 
described as '* an university within 
itself". After graduating B.A. in 
1586, he probably visited Italy and 
Germany, acquiring ti strong liking 
for the former and tin equally 
strong disrelish for the latter. By 
1588 he had settled in London, and 
julopted literature us ii means of 
livelihood. His first; work was Tha 
Anatomic of AlminUtiti (1589), a 
kind of comic companion work to 
Stubbed Ana tonne of Abuses. He 
then Hung himself with charac- 
teristic impetuosity into the Martin. 
Marprelate controversy, lashing the 
Puritans with merciless satire- 
There is some doubt as to how 
numy of the innumerable anony- 

mous pamphlets were Nash's work, 
but his nom de guerre seems to 
have been Pasquil, and he almost 
certainly wrote Martin's Month's 
Miuck (1:589), The 'First Parts of 
Pasqwl's Apologie (1590), and An 
Almond for a Parrot (1590). On 
the conclusion of this controversy 
Nash declared war upon Gabriel 
Harvey and his brothers, and a 
series of most amusing pamphlets 
followed, culminating in Have with 
You 1o Saffron Waldcn (1596). 
Three years later the controversy, 
which had gone to scandalous 
lengths, was stopped by the Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury. Amongst 
N ash's other pamphlets are The 
Terrors of the "Night (1594), Christ's 
Tears over Jerusalem (written in 
1593, during a temporary fit of 
repentance), and Lenten Sluffe 
(.1599), an encomium of Yarmouth 
and its red herrings. The Unfortu- 
nate Traveller ) or the Life of Jack 
Wilton (1594) is the earliest Eng- 
lish picaresque novel. It attempted 
a new kind of writing, which no 
one again essayed until Defoe 

Florence, and Rome, He spends l<w **'.* 

some time in London, and ^tvtvs a pn<r. It 

lively description of its nonrtv. ounplrtn! flits pl,t\ in *tdrr to 

Real persons, such as Sir Thotu,^ piint it, or uhrthn it ua*i I 

More, the Karl of Surrey, Frum'k 1 tor jmulwtinn m ?hr ;,r,u*,r, 

of France, 'Jinwmns, and (*onu'litt'-; w</\ /nf If/// </,/ fn/*n 

Agrippa are introduced, II in ar Niitittral nuvajiir, r, UHUI* MU 

count of the loves of Surrey and if t'oataiin a t It.utoiu^ pnriu on 

Gcraldine cuusetl many general iotis Npnw%uhii lii-.\ tM\rn lu'.t 

of readers to inintakc lictmn for in riif'tftiUrn //n;uvn", \t* 

fact. Jack Wilton is Koiucxvliaf unu'Ij Ir.-mt' 4 rrptnlMfr rfuttt 

incoherent, hut is vividly written <r <iu-nir; hr \\ f ^ tmur r-i^intuuv 

and shows close observation of fluu l'.luurlif\ 'rhnmth lir tud ;t 

human nature. As a prose writer btffrr tcimntr, lu* nutr.u'ol tiitusrlt 

Nash stands very hij^h; in f;ui, his to tin o*w*tujnii,uir 4 , our nt \\l\nm 

prose is more like Sh;tkeHfK\tre*:4 t%ilird him " in^i-uunu'., imtmtunn, 

than is that; of any of his* t'ontnu- fhnut, J.urtiun-, TUoui^-1 \,v,h M , 
porarics. He has the same inv- (H, II, MI Kn i*m 

prcssibility, the Kurne delight in V7;nw./v \A/I; it, 

inverted logic, and the a;ime in- Sniiih, 7'A, 

exhaustible wealth of vocabulary, I f IU-MT 

Y ** . Ti-rt-nm<^ .I'nJ*^*!*"*^****!! i t ' f M , ^ i r t f | 

Ins two lavouritc authors and in thr tim** r*/ Sh^kf\^nt'\ Sir 

models appear to have been Huhc- Walter liitn^li, /7ir- /'V?i;/n/i Vn/r/.j 


Spring, the sweet Spring w the yiMt'n ilst ,tt iani^; 
Then bloouus each thing, then iimidn d.iihr in A n\v\ 
Cold doth not tm^ the pretty liirth do i >tl 
Cuckoo, JUK-JUR, i>n-wt% towitt* w*u,| ' 

The palm and may make country hotiset M V , 
Lambs frisk and play, the hepherdts pipr' lilt iuv, 
And we hear aye hirda tune thin inrrry lav, 
Cuckoo, jutf-jug, pu-we, to-\vitt;i' vvtwt 

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies km ulir 
xoung lovers meet, old wives a.jwmtmy nit 
In every street these tunc our earn do K wt, 
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-vvod! 

Spring, the sweet Spring! 


Lament in Time of Plague 

Adieu! farewell earth's bliss, 
This world uncertain is: 
Fond are life's lustful joys, 
Death proves them all but toys. 
None from his darts can lly: 
1 am sick, I must die. 

Lord have mercy on us! 

Rich men, trust not in wealth 
Gold cannot buy you health: 
Physic himself must fade; 
All things to end are made; 
The plague full swift goes by; 
I am sick, I must die. 

Lord have mercy on, uol 

Beauty is but a (lower, 
Which wrinkles will devour: 
Brightness falls from the air; 
Queens have died young and fair; 
Dust hath closed Helen's eye: 
1 am sick, 1 must die. 

Lord have mercy on us! 

Strength stoops unto the grave, 
Worms feed on Hector brave: 
Swords may not: light with late: 
Earth still holds ope her gate, 
Come, come, the bells do cry: 
I am sick, I must; die. 

Lord have mercy on us! 

Wit with his wantonness 

Tastcth death's bitterness: 
HelFs executioner 
I lath no ears for to hear 
What vain art can reply; 

I am sick, 1 must die. 

Lord have mercy on us! 

Haste therefore eaclx degree 

To welcome destiny: 

32 THOMAS \\Sli 

Hr.nnt i * MW ftrnf.t'nv 


K.itflt Imi a plan * , ',?4' 


t ,uu MI K, I irwf 

I >f 4 |j,u r utru \ i u tj . f 

Prom ^T:ie Uainrmnafc Tnivrllcr " 

What is then* in /'Vw/vv to Iw Ku'nnl mjr I!MU tn /'?;,;/, w,/ { m 
falshood iu tVHou.ship, pMi'vf :.lnnrufit\ t* 1*^,* tin tu.ut l<ui tr my 
pleasure, to swearc ,/A /w /,/ nwt I lieu > ultru ,t nun , fumtnt", 4lr MM! H |? 
For the idle Tniwlh'r, (I wr.wr um }>r tin* riMMlJtMiu.j I Inu- lun\rn 
sonic that hnuo continual tlunv 'hv fhr r.p,t r rf ti,\ttr 4 !*.,"n t M-.ur-t 
and when they cotnr limur, iltrv ha i ,tr Iii.l ,t Ijtf!,- iM<nr\\ l\nw iw 
vndcr a hnnul 1'Vnu-h lut Lqi ,i fmiMr , H d.- wifh t!r *!M 4 m 'il r 
strode in tlanr lou^ ilu.ilr:; tf ^,is' j^i^t, ,ih.l 4 p,J t f 1 n^Ii-Ji Mutu^rlv 
Nought rk IKUU* thry prufiml hv thru iia.iril, -,\ir !rjin!\. 4? 4tn^?u>,l| 
of the true ///w/<wv (dapc, ;m d knt;vr (l (U p nf U ^n:,.., f . w i w 
from wine of Ortctwm \r,i, uu4 jtrt.tiliu-ttfun- tin. ,I!,M, i r.tVrtnr n|' 
the pox an a pimple, to \vc,m* u vrWi jut, h HU fl.m 1 1< r, , m a ^,.Ikc 
mckmcholy with their Arnnv InldriL 

From fytthir what hrin^tih our Tt,iurlln? 4 -, ull uuutia hit of 
the hiBhiou f an oklc drcpr pomtr a .luuiuudMr \Mmnu.-i , Mt | r 
with short siring like tlir ilroppin^. f ,f a tiuiti u,.-^, t in-,,- U anhlrt 
conmung downe with a peak, lidiinac ,n |.i< .., tUr uuppn, .iui mf 
oft before by the hrt^-luim- lllc a (aiilH ur nr.Krnl,n- ( ,i >uli- p.iirr 
ot gascoyna which vn;athml wuhl makr n nttnttr oi wntum Jj" 
kirtles, huge haiiRcrs that hatu- Iwlf a i'uw fml^ in ihr^t, ./ ']lri iluf Jl 
meally descended from hallV a do/ni 1 >kri ,, ( | ir | IM sf t ,c-t hn , Iu fa 
be as long <r an ahort an you ^ill: 5 no Kt i, k Knot uiib T.ttkrv i>imau 
raucld; it Hho rt> lt hath a rap, like a t'.tinc, m,<*, au4 i, U nt , ,lr,pr 
m his whole length, nor hath no mdi duaih in it, I li t.i.ctiu* .r, nnlv 

llriSS^^ a 1>utrhliwntt d ? kr ; ! tt4tlr nnl ^ rf "!< -. 'r 

dent; which scructh him (if you wit Lur t?" mv!tcir.t ili'of rhr 

, , 
he cm ' ,* ' y r' V ^' C hi " 1 " 10a> P-'-l. Iv !, in 


& m ( : , MlaueH) 

it^s 1 *; r ilh il> for tc >' ;im - ii<ii - i '"> 

it be salt p,1tcher to cat with it all the vm- !,.; ...ul, 


which is more, they are poore bcggcrs, and lye in fowle straw cnerie night, 
Italy > the Paraclice of the earth and the 'Epicures heaucn, how cloth 
it forme our yong master? ft makes him to Ids his hand like an ape, 
cringe his necke like a starueling, and play at hey passe repassc come 
aloft, when he salutes a man. From thence he brings the art of atheisme, 
the art of cpieurising, the art of whoring, the art of poysoning, the art 
of Sodomitrie* The onely probable good thing they haue to kccpc vs 
from vtterly condemning it is that it maketh a man an excellent Courtier, 
a curious carpet; knight: which is, by interpretation, a line close leacher, 
a glorious hipoerite, It is nowe a prime note amongst: the better sort of 
men, when they would set a singular marke or brand on a notorious 
villaine, to say, he hath becne in Italy. 

With the Dane and the Dutchman 1 will not encounter, for they 
are simple honest men, that, with Danaus Daughters, doe nothing but 
fill bottomeles tubs, & will be drunke & snort in the midst of dinner: 
he hurts himselfc only that goes thither, he cannot: lightly be damnd, 
for the vintners, the brewers, the malt-men, and alewiues pray for him. 
Pitch and pay, they will pray all day: score & borrow, they will wish 
him much sorrow. But lightly a man is nere the better for their prayers, 
for they commit all deadly sin for the most part of them in mingling 
their drinke, the vinl tiers in the highest; degree. 

Why icst I in such a necessarie perswasiue discourse? I am a banish t 
exile from my country, though ncre liukt in consunguimtic to the best: 
an Karle, borne by birth, but a begger now as thou seest. These manic 
yores in Italy haue 1 lined an outlaw. A while I had a liberal! pension 
of the Pope > but that lasted not, for he continued not: one succeeded 
him in his chaire that cared neither for Englishmen nor his owne countri- 
meiu Then was ,1 driuen to pick vp my crums among the Cardinals, 
to implore the bencuolence & charitie of al the Dukes of l1aly t whereby 
1 haue since made a poore shift: to Hue, but so Hue as I, wish my selfc 
a thousand times dead. 

("tun fnilrhim tnnhi, I tine me />m'te jntialo: 

When I was banisht, thiuke I, caught my bane, 

The sea is the nutiuc aoile to fishes; take lishes from, the sea, they 
take no ioy, nor thriue, but perish straight. Bo likewise the birds remooucd 
from the at re (the abode whcretoo they were borne), the beasts from, the 
earth, and L from ting/antf. Can a lamb take delight to be suckled at the 
breasts of a shc-wolfe? I am a lamb ntmrlsht with the milke of wolues, 
one t hat , with 1 he Itlhiupuws inhabiting ouer against Mvw, feed on nothing 
but scorpions; vse is another nature, yet ten times more contentiue 
were nature, restored to her kingdom from whence she is excluded, 
Belceue me, iu> mre, no bread, no lire, no water cloth a xnan anie good 
out of his owne countrey. Cold frutes ncuer prosper in a hot aoylc, nor 

if, ' 37 



hot in a cold, Let no mini for anir frauMtotte pltMMttc n 
inheritance he hath nf ImMthim*; in fhc pl.uv \\hcfr her \\.i , 

thcc home, n\y yon^ '< lt '< ^V^ C ' IV ' ul|U ' :i P r uri ^ lv ln f ^ lr 
thy fathers, WUKC olde in onerlnnUw* tin i;n>muii, ^^ n \\ 
the eyes of thykinred, Thedtuel and I am dr,\prufr, !IMI| U 
tohe;uum 1 of being availe 

4\\,n* the 

'^*r of 
in clone 

; sectored 


iKU MMU.OWH was burn 
in Canterbury on 6th Fob,, 150^ 
His father was ;i shoemaker bv 
trade. He \vu educated at the 
King's School, Canterbury, whieli 
he entered in 1578, aiul al Henet 
College, Canibrid^e (now Corpus 
Christi). lie matriculated in i5Hi, 
took his B,A, degree in i^,{, aiul 
his M.A. in 1587, Kraneis Kett 
the mystic ^ who wan burnt for 
heresy in 1589, was a Fellow and 
tutor of Benet Colle.i^ and may 
perhaps have helped to develop 
Marlowe's attitude towards re- 
ligion, un attitude often de.seribed 
as atheistical, but probably merely 
unconventional. At the time of bis 
mysterious death a warrant had 
been issued summoning Marlowe 
to appear before the Privy t'otmetl 
to answer tin accusation" of blas- 
phemy. It was not until three 
centuries later that; the authori- 
ties adopted Tiberius's principle - 
deorum iniurias Ji$ cur<n\ After 
going down from Cambridge, Mar- 
lowe became a secret service a^ent 
of some kind, and travelled abroad 
in this capacity. The government; 
specially recommended him for the 
M.A. ( degree, which the college 
authorities were apparently indis- 
posed to grant. It is likely that 
Marlowe settled in London in 1586, 


(hat br Mooti jown! the 1 ,urd 
iral's ('mt|un\ t*t' Pl,t\et:;, 
Mi'err ,r a dtantaU'-I Jint.l lune 
r<tu aitei hr- * anvi 4-; an 

iibnuf Itts titr ut I.uiidou; \\ \v,ui 
nunomed fbal hr u.ri \\itd and 
lieentioiir., (Vff.HisIv lie \vurkrd 
nK bn 1 in :4 -. \*Mf. lir \vtntr :a\ 
ayis loin 1 *t vUurlt \\eu* f't'eat 
,*iUive?wr ; uu tin" :^4sH* He \v,i* 
erifiei/ed lv \4\li, ;iU*l .iHarlanl by 
(Ircesie and <fibiirl II,tt\c\; he 
rtuutbeinl Sit 1 \V,ilt<* K.tlei^h and 
il'in^htMtj wwui; his 
\\\ ju 

met three shady 
I ; ri7er, Nii-huhtH Sketr 1 *, and Hohrti 
Fotev, at itu* hitsr ot MU\mttr Hull, 


wiilnw, in Ueptttinl, All ht-s three 
eompanions \\<*re mmr or lev* rou< 
ut*eted \\itii the :irnH uvivur, 
Tlu*v retnatued ut MtMtmri Hull'M 


from to ;utu to l> pjn n \vben a 
(juarrel about tlu* pitvtwut of" t!te 

bill broke tntt In'tueeu l*ri/rr aiul 
Murlov\t\ In the rwir<* of \\hii"b 

Marltnve \vai tifabbeit in tin* eve 
and died on tin* nfut, J'Yi/iT W4> 
pardcmed UM luvln^ ;ulrd in ^Ht- 
defence, awl Hmt ttittit i^v;, 
having been a dmrthwardru for 
yearn, *Phi'J is the 
eiul ueeoum cif Marlt*vu**H 
a unearthed by iw 



scholar, Dr. J. Leslie Hotson, in 
1925. As the two eyewitnesses and 
the murderer were men who would 
not stick at perjury, we may be 
allowed to doubt whether even yet 
we have got the true story. The 
story told in court, however, dis- 
poses of various fables about mis- 
tresses, bawdy serving-men, and 
blasphemy, which were used by 
Puritanical writers to point a moral. 
Marlowe's earliest extant play is 
Tamfawlaine the Great, which was 
probably produced in 1587, It is 
in two parts, but is virtually one 
play in ten acts. At the outset of 
the play Marlowe, with superb 
self-confidence, proclaims himself 
an innovator: 

From jigging veins of rhyming 

mother- wits, 
And such conceits as elownagc, 

keeps in pay, 
We'll lead you to the stately tent: 

of war, 
Where you shall hoar the Scythian 

Threatening the world with high 

astounding terms. 

With all its faults of violence and 
bombast, Tcmlmrlaine was incom- 
parably the best tragedy that had 
as yet been produced on the Eng- 
lish, stage. It is important not only 
for its intrinsic merits, which are 
considerable, but also as a piece of 
pioneer work, It is the first play 
to be written in blank verse, as 
distinguished from mere unrhymed 
decasyllabic lines, Marlowe's verse, 
while dignified and majestic, is 
much more supple and infinitely 
less monotonous than that of any 
of his predecessors. Tamburlaine 
is obviously a young man's work, 
but its exaggeration contributed to 
its success, and its inlluence on 
English tragedy was very great. 

The Tragical History of Doc for 
Faustus was produced in 1588. It 
is not a well-constructed play, 
being a series of disconnected 
scenes rather than a connected 
whole. Its text is not in a satis- 
factory condition, and the comic 
scenes, which contain extremely 
poor fooling, are, it is believed 
or hoped, by another hand. Yet 
Doctor Faustiis is a memorable 
play; the address to Helen and the 
concluding scenes of the play and 
soliloquies of Faustus are among the 
best things not only in Marlowe, 
but in all English drama. Goethe 
said of this play, " How greatly it is 
all planned!" and thought of trans- 
lating it. In the great work of his 
life he extended and embroidered 
the Faust legend almost beyond 
recognition; but it may be doubted 
if he wrote anything that arouses 
so much pity and terror as the con- 
clusion of Marlowe's play. 

The Famous Tragedy of the Rich 
Jew of Alalta was produced about 
1590. Its plot, unlike those of the 
other plays, appears to have been 
invented by Marlowe, hence, per- 
haps, its wild extravagances. It is 
a play of very unequal merits; the 
first two acts are written in Mar- 
lowe's best style, and the last three 
are feeble and melodramatic. Bar- 
rabas is scarcely a more life-like 
figure than Mr. Punch, whom he 
resembles in his taste for atrocities, 
lie finally perishes by means of 
<( something lingering with boiling 
oil in it " which, he had prepared 
for someone else. In spite of some 
absurdities, this play has many 
passages of noble poetry in it, 
notably the opening soliloquy of 
the Jew, 

Edward II (c, 1591) is the most 
flawless of Marlowe's plays, though 



not the most magnificent. It; it; hi:; ouupanr.nn. Awnnn Matlowo's 

greatest work as a dramatist, but :Junn' pm-m,; (.'tune ff-tr with w 

not as a poet. Marlnuc's j;niiiri <tn</ /*' ///v /"/v i-., ,r; \\.dion tailed 

was in some respects epic ratlin* if, ** rlmnvlv \\nt\\\ ", 
than dramatic; C'alliopt: ratlu v r M,uln\\r, alih*'M-h lu- di^.I *-^ 

than Melpomene war, the MUJU* \ntni<% \\,t:; S:UM{ nut mrn 

whom he served. An historical piomi.r but ui pcn1unn,itu'\ 

play gave the poetical side uf his mMtrd blank \rj>\ tutu| ( *d b 

genius ICSR scope; loadiniro Kdwant h* i *b tM M . rt ^ and \mfr SOUH* uf 


// more than the other play:) b' to finest p,tv.,uM"i of dr.tiu.ttie jttHir\ 

admire what is lcs typical of the in the laacu.t *r. He \>\ iur*Mnp,uMhlv 

poet's genius. It is obvious that the ( weate,,t of 1 'hale .pranks jv 

JShakespeure had this play in miiul tloeessor-s lu-in*', ,\\ murli above 

when lie was writing Kiintnl //, <>ivcue ( K\*l, and Trrlr as Shakr- 

but he did not surpass his model, J'.pc.irr is, alo\r jorv.on ,uul Ile.m 

The death-scene iu AlarloweV; play mont and Meti'lier, Lri th,ni 

is one of the most moving scenes in thm* uumths <lier lli.m Shake 

all drama, ancient: or modern, ,*;pe;uv in uetual a-e, he \\a<; vrar,, 

Marlowe's other two plays art* older in development. He \ U s 

of comparatively small import aucc, Shala^fUMt/s tua-.ter, and Shake 

Both have been preserved in a jipeatv does not p.iv ,wv other ton 

mutilated and mangled slate, The temnorarv' .1 vompluwnf like ibaf 

Massacre at Paris h notable for paid to Marlmu- iu . Iv hw / t /Av //, 

little except its strong auti^/atholic III, \ t S.', 'I o no pinuret i!o l\n 

tendencies. In Dido, Ouwn of lish poru;\ aud tli aina oue no mtu-li; 

Carthage Marlowe failed mainly and yet it' i-i nut nindy a : a nuncer 

because he adhered too closely to that he ilcsrur-- in be 

He dr:,er\e:} to br luvrd ami 
reverenced a-; one ol our 

Virgil, regardless of the didVrent 
medium iu which he was working, 

This again shows the epic nature of poets, Nor nut 4 it be thought that 

Marlowe's genius. Mash cither he taught Shakespeare tunriv to use 

collaborated in this play or, more blank \rrse; be tuimht Hbakrsprare 

probably, finished it after Mur- and Krtuland iu his miiduv burs how 

lowc's death. to urite about bi^li uuttrts In the 

As a poet Marlowe sluntls almost wand style, Siiblimitv i-. bis Creates! 

higher than as a dramatist, His ^ift to lim*Mi litmitmr, " 
coUegc-cxcrciac vernion of ()vid l s [A, IL Httlten, 

Amres and Ins litie-for-linc render- A, \\\ Vmtv, 
mg of the first book of I.ucanV 
I kanaka arc commonplaces but iu 



tyle; |. A, Svm.nuK ti 

Ins Hero and bander , which is u .v/wr\v /Wrrmm;' K. S, 
recasting rather than a paraphrase AV/^v/uwr , 


ot the poem of IVtunaeuB, he has /^rrr/ ( v < W e/ /;/* ////,/r s J 
wri ten what may chum to he the Hotsou, The /Mi/A 

aSW rl^ tlc moat in 
E^abcthaii poems 

} dclr1 au imita 

acaii poems, r^r; a Coi^rim, A new rditi 

ion n/^ T } dc ; lr1 ^ au imita - of RI;lrlmvc ' ; ' J aiMHMriiiK under t 
tion of it, is pale and colourless in ^ncral cnlitorsliip *,|' R 1 1 , < *a H 


The Deatli of Zenocrate 


Proud fury and intolerable lit, 
That dares torment the body of my Love, 
And scourge the Scourge of the immortal God: 
Now are those Spheres where Cupicl used to sit, 
Wounding the world with wonder and with love, 
Sadly supplied with pale and ghastly death: 
Whose darts do pierce the Centre of my soul. 
Her sacred beauty hath enchanted heaven, 
And had she Hv'd before the siege of Troy, 
Helen, whose beauty summoned Greece to arms, 
And drew a thousand ships to Tencdos, 
Had not been nam'd in Homer's Iliads: 
Her name had been in every line he wrote: 
Or had those wanton Poets, for whose birth 
Old Rome was proud, but gazed a while on her, 
Nor Lcsbia, nor Corinna had been nam'd, 
Zenocrate had been the argument 
Of every Epigram or Elegy. 

[Tli c music sounds , and she dies. 
What, is she dead? Techellcs, draw thy sword, 
And wound the earth, that it may cleave in twain, 
And we descend into th* infernal vaults, 
To hale the fatal Sisters by the hair, 
And throw them in the triple moat of Hell, 
For taking hence my fair Zenocrate, 
Casane and Theridamas to amis, 
Raise Cavalieros higher than the clouds, 
And with the cannon break the frame of heaven, 
Batter the shining palace of the Sun, 
And shiver all the starry firmament: 
Vor amorous Jove hath snatched my love from hence. 
Meaning to make her stately Queen of heaven. 
What (Joel so ever holds thcc in his arms, 
Giving thee Nectar and Ambrosia, 
Behold me here divine Xenocrate, 
Raving, impatient, desperate and mad, 
Breaking my steeled lance, with which I burst 
The rusty beams of Janus* Temple doors, 
Letting out death and tyrannizing war: 
To march with me under tins bloody Hag, 

CHRISTOPHER \i\ki, o\\>: 

And if lhou pitienf Tambui hiiur tin* !te,u, 
Come down from he.ueu anil !i\r \\ult inr 

TintUI\M\ - 

Ah good my 1,01x1 he patient* -.he N <le,ul, 
And all this ra^in^ eaunot uuKe her live, 
If words misfit serve, our voire tud rent thr ,u, 
If tears, our eves have watered all the ranlr 


If grief, our murtheretl hearts ha\r straiiuni tottli 
Nothing prevails, for she h de.ul iu\ l,inL 

,\MWK! AIM: 

l"or die is dead? i\\y \vords tin pieier im 
Ah sweet Tlieridanuis, sa) ;^ no inoie. 
Though she be dead, yet lei tur think -he 
And fectl my mind that dies lor \\ant ni \wi : 
Where ere her soul he, tttou slult r.tav with iur 
KmbalmM with ('a.snia, Aiuhn^tr; aiul \l\irli, 
Not (apt in lead Imt in a jiheet of^uld, 
And till I die thou shalt \\m \\v iuirnM, 
Then in as rich a tomb as Mausolu;;, 
We both will rest and ltau one 
Writ in as many several laimtia 

# ' ^ f 

As I have eoiu|uered kin^louis \\iih uu !i\\cml. 

This cursed town \vilt 1 consume with iuv, 

Because this place bereft me of mv hove; 

The houses burnt, will look as if they wmiwM 

And here will I set up her statua, 

And inarch about it with my mournm| ramp, 

Drooping and piniu K for Zenorrate, ' 7'//r . /,, v 

(Tumhtirhiinc, /V. //, lines >i|' jt to.) 



Was this the face that launched a thousand MhtjiM? 

And burnt the topless Towers of Ilium? 

Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kixs: I A./VWJ Im , 

Her lips suck forth my soul, BCC wliere it Hie,; 

Lome Helen, come give me my soul a^uhu 

Here will I dwell, for heaven be in tht*e lijw 


And all is dross that is not Helena: 
1 will be Paris, and for love of tbee, 
Instead of Troy rhall Wertenberg be saek j d t 
And I will eombat with weak Mcnclaus, 
And wear thy colours on my plumed Crest: 
Yea I will wound Achilles in the heel, 
And then return to Helen for a kiss, 
O thou art fairer than the evening air, 
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars, 
Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter, 
When he appeared to hapless Semcle, 
More lovely than the monarch of the sky 
In wanton Aretbusa's axur'd amis, 
And none but thou shah be my paramour. 

(Doctor Faustus, lines 1328-1347.) 

The Death of Faustus 

(The clock strikes eleven.) 

Ah Faustus, 

Now hast thou but one bare hour to live, 
And then thou must be dunm'd perpetually: 
Stand still you ever moving spheres of heaven, 
That time may cease, and midnight never come: 
Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make 
Perpetual day, or let this hour be but 
A year, a month, a week, a natural day, 
That Faustus may repent, and save his soul, 
() lente, le.nte currite noctis eqiti: 
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike, 
The devil will come, and Faustus must be daum'd. 
() I'll leap up to my God: who pulls me down? 
See, see where Christ's blood streams in the firmament. 
One drop would save my soul, half a drop, ah my Christ, 
Ah rend not my heart for naming of my Christ, 
Yet will I call on him: oh spare me Lucifer! 
Where is il now? 'tis gone: And see where God 
Stretchcth out his arm, and bends his ireful brows: 
Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on me, 
And hide me from the heavy wrath of God, 
No, no. 

Then will 1 headlong inn into the e,ufh: 

Earth ftupo, no, il uill tiuf luil'onr inr; 

You Ktiirs that rrii'.wd at m\ tufnifv* 

Whose influence hath allnttnl dr.ifh *md hell, 

Now draw up Faustu:i liKe a fui*:^ mi a ( 

Into the entrails of \on taluiu 1 /, ilmul, 

That when you vomit t'nith into fin* .w * 

My Ihubw muy is:uir tMnn yiur Munlv inMtttft ., 

So that my noul mav hut ,i'. riul t htM\m; 

Ah half the hottr i:s pa:4; 1 /'/ ;.- t ;/,-// v/;// irVl 

"Twill a!) br past HIM HI: 

Oh (Sod, 

If thou \\ilt not Iwvc inn'i'v on n\\ :.onL 

Si , 

Vet for Christ^ alu% \\ho-;r J^lootl h.ifh i.ii 
Impose sonic cjut to my imT'i:auf pain, 
Let I'uustuH live iu hell a thcw..iul,, 
A hundred thonsaiut, and at la%f IH- s4\nl. 
O no ciul is liinitrd tu dauinnl MMjls, 
Why wort thou not a crcafurr \vantnu* MM! 
Or, why is this immortal thiU thou Im:it.;' 
Mitytlttignnts wtirimuwist \vnc that trnr, 
[rhioul Hhould fly from nu% and I hr r 
'Unto sonic hrutLsh hcast; all IHM^, urr I 
For when they die, 

Their sonls arc soon disJtolvM in rlcmnif 
But mine uwt live still to k* ph^tu^t in 
Curs*d be the parent a that cn^rndct'tl me; 
No FaimtnH, curse thy aclf, t-urse Ltuitct t 
That hath deprived tiicc of the jnyu nf JMvrtj 

, [ '/'/if cttn'k \fnfoth /;;N A- 

U it stnkca, it striken; now body turn to air, 
Or Lucifer will hear thce quielTto hell; 

soul, be changed into UttUt wate 
Aad foil into the Ocean, nc*er lc found; 
My God, my (Jod, look not HO fierce on me; 

(Kntw devils) 

Adders, and Serpents, let me breathe a while: 
Ugly hell gape not, come not Lndfer, 
H burn my books, Ah McpUwtophclcH! {I^ml v/A 

(Kntcr Chants.) 



Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight, 

And burned is Apollo's Laurel bough, 

That sometime grew within this learned man: 

Faustus is gone, regard his hellish fall, 

Whose ficndful fortune may exhort the wise, 

Only to wonder at unlawful things, 

Whose deepness cloth entice such forward wits, * 

To practise more than heavenly power permits, 

(Doctor Faustits, lines 1419-1485.) 

From "The "ew of Malta 55 



(Enter Karrabas in his Counting-house, with heaps 

of gold before him.) 


So that of thus much that return was made: 

And of the third part of the Persian ships, 

There was the venture summ'd and satisfied. 

As for those Samintes, and the men of Uxx, 

That bought my Spanish Oils, and Wines of Greece, 

Here have I pursed their paltry silvcrlings. 

Fie; what a trouble 'tis to count this trash. 

Well fare the Arabians, who so richly pay 

The things they traffic for with wedge of gold, 

Whereof a man may easily in a day 

Tell that which may maintain him all his life, 

The needy groom that never lingered groat, 

Would make a miracle of thus much coin: 

But he whose steel-barrM coffers arc crammed full, 

And all his life-time hath been tired, 

Wearying his finger ends with telling it, 

Would in his age be loath to labour so, 

And for a pound to sweat himself to death; 

Give me the Merchants of the Indian Mines, 

That trade in metal of the purest mould; 

The wealthy Moor, that in the Eastern rocks 

Without control can pick his riches up, 

And in his house heap pearl like pebble-stones; 

Ill R1S mill Ht \l\KUnYF 

Receive them I'ur, .uitl ,rll thi'iu bv fhr unrhf, 
BU&S of firry Op.iK S.tpphtn 1 ^ \t* *h\ -* <* 
jacinths, tuid Tu|u.\ ruv. "*TII I iu t,j,U < t 
Beauteous Unhir., sp,ullmi; huniMii.! ,, 
Awl iurildsow* o*Mh '4uitr, *! <n '-I if pn*r, 
As one of flu'iii itulilirt't'tuU*'J t 
And tit';' (\imvt nf (hi,, *|it,tnft\ , 
Mnv servo in prril <t utl.nut!\ 

a 1 * 

To ratinnn i^tvaf Kif* ^ liul s l ! v|u If ^ 

This in tin- \v,uv \\hrrcitt MUM 4s tnv 

And thus me thiuU ;4itiihl turu ni jtn 

Their means nt tr.itiu' ftnin the \ul',Mt 

Atul as tlteir \\r,iiflt iiu ira 4llu %n rn 

Iniinitc riehrs in a liulf HHHU, 

Hut now \HK\ !'t,intl'-i the vutttl 

Into \vhat i*orner JHHTS m\ II,iU\u*' lull 

llu t to the Kit'it? \iM Sir hnu "4,tiul'* the \uie-. 

East and bv-South; uhv thru I hnpt* i\\\ :4n:. 

f i ! t 

I, Kent tor Kjjypt and the hniilrtiu^ 1 4r^ 

Are gotten up hy Xilu%' \\iiMhti^ Icml', 
Mine Argcisy t'mut Alr\uidti4 4 
Louden with Spur ;uul Stlk%, itou utidei -^ul, 
Arc smoothly tdidiim douu l\ ( \uuhf shittc 

* t * 

o Multa, through our Mrilitt'iiantMu :.ri, 

From c( llcro and 

On Hellespont tfuiltj, of true lo\r\i 
In view and opposite t\vo eities .stood, 


The one AhydoH, tlie oilier Scsttn hifjit, 
At Sc8toa> Hero dwdt; Hero iltr fiiir, 
WhomyounR Apollci courted lor her luiii\ 
And offered UB a dower hm Intrniuit throw*, 
Where she should wit for men to ji;axi* upon, 
The outside of her tfarmtriUs went of lavuu 
The lining purple ilk with gilt stiit'H dr,i\ut, 
Her wide slccvcn Rrccn, and bordered with a j;r< 
Where Venus in 'her naked glory HI rove, 
To please the carclewH ami disdainful even 
Of proud Adonis that before her lies. 


Her kirtlc blue, whereon was many a slain, 

Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain. 

Upon her head she wore a myrtle wreath, 

From whence her veil reached to the ground beneath. 

Her veil was artificial flowers and loaves, 

Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives. 

Many would praise the sweet smell as she pass'd, 

When 'twas the odour which her breath forth cast, 

And there for honey bees have sought in vain, 

And beat from thence, have lighted there again, 

About her neck hung chains of pebble stone, 

Which lightened by her neck, like Diamonds shone. 

She wore no gloves, for neither sun nor wind 

Would burn or parch her hands, but to her mind, 

Or warm or cool them, for they took delight 

To play upon those hands, they were so white. 

Buskins of shells all silvered used she, 

And branched with blushing coral to the knee; 

Where sparrows perched, of hollow pearl and gold, 

Such as the world would wonder to behold; 

Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills, 

Which as she went would chirrup through the bills. 

Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pin'd, 

And looking in her face, was stricken blind . 

But this is true, so like was one the other, 

As he imagined I lero was his mother. 

And oftentimes into her bosom Hew, 

About her naked neck bis bare arms threw, 

And laid his childish head upon her breast, 

And with still, panting rock'd, there took his rest. 

So lovely fair was Hero, Venus Nun, 

As nature wept, thinking she was undone; 

Because she took more from her than she left, 

And of such wondrous beauty her bereft: 

'Therefore in sign her treasure suffered wrack, 

Since Hero's time, hath half the world been black. 

Amorous JLeander, beautiful and young, 

(Whose tragedy divine Musaeus sung) 

Dwelt at Abydos: since him dwelt there none, 

For whom succeeding times make greater moan. 

I Us dangling tresses that were never shorn, 

Had they been cut, and unto Colchos borne, 

Would have allur'd the venturous youth of Greece 

To hazard more than for the golden Fleece, 


Fair Cynthia vdshrd hi-; ,utu. turhf !< hrr f.pim**, 

GriefinakeM IUT pair, hn-.w.e -.In- nuiu-i nt thru*, 

Ui$ hotly was an ,%fr,ii^'hf ;n 1 'u* r* * v\,md, 

* 1 

Jove miftht have MppM <wt \n t,u in<m lit , luiul, 
Even UH delicious iw,t w to flu* t.r.t\ 
Ho was his neck h f"iu liitus .ttnl Mtrp.i 
The white of lVInp;i j.hnnW*"!'. I i Midi! trll \<\ 

How smooth his lm*,N \^r H ami li\\ \Utffr ftr, hcll 
And whose wtwnrul litrt i did iinpiini 
TlnU h<MVcitly path, \ufli in.inv .1 niUMii', dtnf, 
Tlrat runs abti^; his I>,u'k, httt tnv nidr \\n\ 
("an Irardlv lla/n forth flu* luvr>. <t inro, 

* ft 

Much loss of powrrlul j*tuj'i: Irl if Mitli^r, 

Thai tnv stack intisr i.itu*:* ot Lranitt'iV* r\c"* t 
* * 

ThoHc <iricnt (dtiTkt* untl tip's rvmlitu* hi-* 
That leapt into the \vjttor fur a li /, 

Of lii$ own h;ul<\v, liiid drspi-iiM! in.ttn 
Died ere he rnuld nijo\ I!H" 1m << of 

** 1 1 1 

lludwikl Ilippolytus h candor %mi 

Kmtiuoured of his beauty had hr 
Ilia preset ice nuulc the nulri.t pt 
That in the vast ttphuulish mntiy d\\rli l 

Was mov'd with hint^ ;UH! fur hi:, favour r 
Some swore he was a maid in iiunV; auitr, 
For in his looks were all that nirit <ltv.iiv, 
A pleasant smiling du'ck, a :i|H\tktiit*; ryv. 
A brow for love to hantfuef ruyally, 
And such ;ut ktunv he war* a man wuuht nay, 
Lcamler, thon art nuult* for ainonnm pUv;' 
Why art; thou not in love, and lovM of altf 
Though thou he fair, yet he no! thine mvn thtall 

_Thc men of wealthy Sestos, every, 
(For his sake whom tlu-ir ModdciH lieltl ,un, 
Rose-cheeked Adonis) kept a Kolenm feast, 
Thither resorted many a wuiuleriujt; ^ueM, 
To meet their loves; auch as Inul ntmr at all, 
Came lovers home from thin ^reat fcHtix 
For every street like to a Firmament 
Glistered with breathing stars, who \vhcre tho> 
frighted the mclanelioly earth, \\hich d 
Eternal heaven to burn, for so it; 8cemM 
As if another Phaeton had #,t 
The guidance of the aun^ rich chariot, 


But far above the loveliest Hero shin'd, 

And stole away th' enchanted ga/xr's mind, 

For like Sea-nymphs enveigling harmony, 

So was her beauty to the slanders by. 

Nor that night-wand'riug pale and watVy star 

(When yawning dragons draw her thirling car 

From Latmus mount up to the gloomy sky, 

Where crown'd with blazing light and majesty, 

She proudly sits) more over-rules the flood, 

Than she the hearts of those that near her stood, 

Even as, when gaudy Nymphs pursue the chase, 

Wretched Ixion's shaggy footed race, 

Incensed with savage heat, gallop amain 

From steep Pine-bearing mountains to the plain: 

So ran the people forth to gaze upon her, 

And all that vievAl her, were enamour 'd on her. 

And as in fury of n dreadful light, 

Their fellows being slain or put to flight, 

Poor soldiers stand with fear of death dead strookcn, 

So at her presence all surprised and tooken, 

Await the sentence of her scornful eyCvS: 

I le whom she favours lives, the other dies. 

There might you see one sigh, another rage, 

And some (their violent passions to assuage) 

Compile sharp satires, but alas too late, 

For faithful love will never turn to hate. 

And many seeing great princes were denied, 

Pined as they went, and thinking on her died. 

On this feast; day, cursed clay and hour, 

Went I lero thorough Sestos, from her tower 

To Venus temple, where unhappily, 

As after chanced, they did each other spy. 

So fair a church as this, had Venus none, 

The walls were of discoloured Jasper stone, 

Wherein was Proteus carved, and overhead, 

A lively vine of green sea agate spread; 

Where by one hand, light headed Bacchus hung, 

And with the other, wine from grapes out wrung. 

Of Crystal shining fair the pavement was, 

The town of Sestos called it Venus glass. 

There might you see the gods In sundry shapes, 

Committing heady riots, incest, rapes: 

For know, that underneath this radiant floor 

Was Danae's statue in a brazen tower, 


Jo\cslily Mealing Itntn hi>, '.v-tet 1 '. 
To dally \\iih td,!un t ,unme<i, 

Ami !nr his lu\r l',utop,t hrllmust 1 ,* Intnl. 
Aiul tmnhhni* \U(h ihr K,tnhou ui 4 i Intul 

DloOtUjlUtlWl* \1,U' hr.tUW, the Moll urt, 

Which limping \ul*",nt ,ml hr. < V h*|v. \ri 
Love kindling hn\ to but u %tn Si t<\\ ts . t- "J'i 
Sylvunus \\rrpitu* (of flu* linrh !M\ 
'Unit now is tuntnl into a i \ptr-, iirr\ 
Utnlcr \vho>c ?*huli* thr \\oui *, 
And in the i!ii*l;4 ;i :4l\rr alf.u r^t 
'Ilicrc Horn tf.u'ntu'iw, tintlr-.' t-' 
Veiled in the p'tniwi, \'tl!lli: !trf r\c tti- 

And luutirMK tlu*\ opnirtl a% 'Jir jn-.f" 

TIicwv (ivsv LOVC'N artou with tl$r !ttl*lrti IHM<! 

And tints UMndi'r U.IN I'liatuottH'il. 

Stono still he Moml, ainl incnunir lir i%i/ril 
Till \vifh the lire tlul trotn hi% uitjni'nanrr l 
Relenting IlrroV; j^rntlr IUMH u,r* ;4mnl, 
Such foive and \erttic lutli ,111 .uutuou^ 1MK, 

It lien ntt in our pinvc-r to lovo or h.ifr, 
For will in us is ovtM^ntlnl !v t.ite, 
When two are strip! lun;: eie the nww br'.n 
We wish that one should IUM*, the mhei \un; 
And one cspo^ially do \\e jllrvf 
Of two gold In^niH like in eadt rr 
The reason no man kmmti let it .-it 
What \vc bch(UI in eeuHuml h\ ottr eyr:*. 
Where both detiherute, the hn ; e in sili^iu, 
Who ever loveit, that loved ntif ,t Hrr,i j^lur 1 
^ lie kuoclM, but unto her devumlv jirayM; 
Chaste Hero to hernelf tints mil'tly will: 
Were i the saint he wurohips, ! \vultl hear him, 
And as ahe npake those words, came nouu^lul ne ir hini f 
He started up, she bitched as one ashanietl; 
Wherewith Unmder ituteli more wan infUmnl 
He touched her hand, in ionrhing it nhe trnuhltnl, 
Love deeply grounded, luirdly in diwembled, 
These lovers purled by the toueh ol handti, 
True love is mute, and oft umami .stands/ 
1m while dumb *( K m their yieldinfr I H %UIM 
Ihc air with spark of living tire was Hpanjd 
And night deep drenched m misty Aelieron 
Heaved up her head, and half the world upon 

C 1 1 R I S r F OP1 1 K R M A Rl .OWE 47 

Breathed darkness forth (dark night is Cupid's clay). 

And now begins Leander to display 

Love's holy lire, with words, with sighs and tears, 

Which like sweet music entered Hero's ears, 

And yel at every word she turned aside, 

And always cut; him olT as he replied, 

At last, like to a hold sharp Sophister, 

With cheerful hope thus he accosted her. 

Fair creature, let me speak without: o Hence, 
1 would my rude words had the influence, 

To lead thy thoughts as thy fair looks do mine, 

Then shouldst thou he his prisoner who is thine. 
Be not unkind and fair, misshapen stulF 
Are of hehaviour boisterous and rough, 

X) shun me not, but hear me ere you go, 

God knows 1 cannot force love, as you do. 

My words shall be as spotless as my youth, 

Full of simplicity and naked truth. 

This sacrifice (whose sweet; perfume descending, 

I'Yom Venus' altar to your footsteps bending) 

Doth testify that you exceed her far, 

To whom you oll'er, and whose Nun you are. 

Why should you worship her? her you surpass, 

As much as sparkling Diamonds (luring glass. 

A Diamond set in lead his worth retains, 

A heavenly Nymph, hclov'd of human swains, 

Receives no blemish, but oft-times more grace, 

Which makes me hope, although I am but base, 

Base in respect: of thee, divine and pure, 

Dutiful service may thy love procure, 

And I in duty will excel all other, 

As thou in beauty dost exceed love's mother. 

The Passionate Shepherd to his Love 

Come live with me, and be my love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove, 
That valleys, groves, hills and fields, 
Woods, or sleepy mountain yields. 

And we will sit; upon the Rocks, 
Seeing the Shepherds feed their Hocks 
By shallow Rivers, to whose foils 
Melodious birds sing Madrigals. 


And 1 xull nula* tlirr lnK i Kn-. 
And a tlinti'jiid tMiM'.tttt po .ir,, 
A dtp of tloxu'tX and ,t Uitlr, 
Kmhroidrmi all \\ilh lra\r; til \I 

A j.<o\\n wadr of llir twr.f \\unl, 

Winch from our jnrfH Lamb-* \u- 
Fair lined slipper* tot the mid, 
With bmilni of llif |>uir'4 >*nUt, 



A bolt of .straw am! t\y 
With (Wai d,i;jv; ;uil Atulci i r.fiu 
And if tlu*:;o j'4ristirr:i usuv tlirr u 
Come live with me, ;ul tu* ni\ 


F<n 8 iliy dc'livJU each M,i'v .lunt 
If tlu'He dc 4 li^ltlH thy tnuut taa 
Then live with nu% ;ul lio inv 



M *> 



THOMAS Kyn was the on of a I , 
clon scrivener, and was ciluc 
at Merchant Taylors' School That 
is almost nil that wo know of hw 
life apart from his writings; we do 
know, however, that he \vaa u 
friend of Marlowe, and m 15^3 
was accused of sharing; Marlowe*^ 
heterodox (probably Unitarian) 
views on religion. He \va ap- 
parently not at either University, 
and at an early age adopted litera- 
ture as a profession. He published 
a translation from Tasso, which he 
named The Houscholdm Pltih- 
sophie, and a pamphlet on a recent 
murder, The True the of the nmt 
wicked and secret Mwthcrinj* of 
John Brewen, Goldsmith, of London, 
committed by his owne wife, lie 
also translated a French tragedy by 
Robert Gamier, Pompey the Great) 

1 594 ) 



tfi |nuthuii<*u, 77if" 

also Invn atttilnittnl to him on 
hat flttuity rxidrtuv, Ilin 
prinripul work, or at any utr hin 
prinnpal cxtunt work, ir 
7>v/4'/v//V, ctwhtinitt!; //ir* 
end ttf I fan Itnmtin ttntl 
with'tlw pilijut ttwlh 
ywf>. Thm plu> , u 
uuirk iu lint'JjHh tintuuiiic Uiutory, 
W:IH probably xvritttm ubottt 1580; 
on ucgauvu evidriur it \vuti *H*r 
tainly writtm bi*ioro lltr drIVat of 
the Amuulu in 15X8, It b full of 
horrors, \vhich arc thus admirably 
Hninnrariwd by the Oluwt tit the 
end of the play; 

Horatio numtor'd by HIM fatht*r* 

Vild Hcrberine by I 



False Peclringano hang'd by quaint 

Fair Isabella by herself misdonc; 

Prince Balthazar by Belimperia 

The Duke of Castile and his wicked 

Both done to death by old Ilicro- 

My Belimperia fall'n, as Dido 

And good Hicronimo slain by him- 

Tn spite of, or perhaps because of, 
its orgy of bloodshed, The Spanish 
Tragedie was immensely popular 
and had a long life, giving pleasure 
not only to the audiences of the 
'eighties, but to younger and more 
sophisticated generations of play- 
goers. Several of its phrases be- 
came proverbial. Those who, like 
Ben Jonson, were self-constituted 
directors of public taste, tried in 
vain to wean the public from their 
liking for this crude old pUvy. 
Jonson himself, in his younger 
clays, wrote some additions to it; 
whether they arc the un-Jonsonian 
additions which we possess or 
whether these arc the work of 
Webster is an unsolved and prob- 
ably an insoluble problem. The 
success of The Spanish Tragcdie 
caused the production of a com- 
panion-play usually called The Firs I 
Part of Jcronimo. A sequel to The 
Spanish Tragcdie was obviously 
impossible, as so many of its 
dramatis per some were dead; so 
Jeronimo, though written later, is a 
forerunner to the other play, jfero- 
nimo is a crude, ill-written play, so 
absurd that some critics interpret 
it as intentionally so. It is almost 
impossible to believe that Kyd 
wrote this burlesque upon his own 
work; and there are reasons for 
supposing that this play was not 
V-UL. n. 

written until after 1600, when Kyd 
had been dead some five years. 
There is a considerable body of 
evidence, too long to summarise 
here, that in 1588 or thereabouts 
Kyd wrote a Hamlet^ some passages 
of which possibly survive in the 
1603 quarto edition of Shake- 
speare's play. There is no Eliza- 
bethan document whose loss is 
more to be regretted than the loss 
of this old play; for no other docu- 
ment would throw more light on 
Shakespeare's mind and art. There 
is no doubt that Shakespeare had 
an older play in front of him when 
he wrote Hamlet, and small doubt 
that that play was Kyd's* 

Kyd is one of the most impor- 
tant and one of the least interesting 
of Shakespeare's predecessors. His 
work has the historic but not the 
intrinsic value of Marlowe's. His 
sombre and Senccan masterpiece 
set the fashion in the early 'nine- 
ties for tragedies of the type of 
Titus Androniciis, and at a later 
date for plays like those of Webster 
and Tourneur. Though its plot is 
fairly well constructed and its 
dialogue more human than that of 
Marlowe, it is not great literature. 
" Sporting Kyd ", as Jonson humor- 
ously called himthe epithet being 
highly inappropriatedid, however, 
contribute certain valuable elements 
to early drama, such as a better plot 
and good stage situations. Marlowe 
influenced Shakespeare the poet, 
and Kyd influenced Shakespeare 
the dramatist. 

[F, S. Boas, The Works of 
Thomas Kyd\ ]. W. Cunliffe, The 
Influence of Seneca on English 
Tragedy; W. H. Widgery, The 
First Quarto Edition of Hamlet, 
x6o3\ 7- A. Symonds, Shak$pere*s 



T'ie Spanish Traga : 'ie 

(Ktttcr the Glinxf of ANMUKX, timt with hittt HI-I'I-N<;M,) 

When, this eternal! substance uf my t 
Did Hue imprisoud in my \viwtw i 

Each in their function wcniinft thrrs nrni<\ 
I was a Conrticr in the Sfitwibh Court; 
'My ntunc was D<w /fW/vw, tnv diiurnt 
Though not ignoble, yrt intVnonr funv 
To tmU'ious fortune of my trtuicr youth : 

* i k , 

For there in prime ami pritlo cf all my ym 
By ilnctious t*ruia% ;uul <t(*s<*niin^ luu<% 
In secret I posscttt u wurthy I)anu\ 
Which hi^ht K\vrete lM*imprria by name: 

But in the hanient <f mv mimcr !OV<*N, 


Deathea winter nipt the hhuiswnrs uf IUY b 
ForccMng clinoirc hot \vi\t my lout* aiul mr; 
For in the lute conflict with 

My valour drew me into ila 

Till life to death made passage through my \ummlcs: 

When I wan shunt*, my soulc dent'endrd nfrai^lit 

To passe the llcnvin^ Htreame of Achwun\ 

But churlish Cfwnn onely Boat -man there, 

Sayd, that my rites of buriall not perforuuio, 

I might not sit amon^nt his j>;tHujj,'cr: 

Ere fiol had slept three ni^htes in Thrtis lap, 

And slukt his amoaluntf Chariot in her iloud, 

By Don Horatio our Knight-Marslwls sontu*, 

My "Funerala and <>hc<iuic were done: 

Then was the Ferrkmm of I lell content, 

To p'^se me oner to the ttllmie stroiul, 

That leades to fell Auwum ougly waue: 

There pleasing (Mm<m with homed npearh, 

I past the perils of the formoat porch, 

Not farrc from hence amidnt ten thouHund oult*, 

Sate Minos, Eacus, and Rh adamant: 

To whom no sooner gan 1 make approcli, 

To craue a pasport for my wand ring (Jluwt, 

But Minos In grancn leaucs of Lottcrie, 

Drew foorth the manner of my lyfc and death. 

This Knight (quoth he) both iiu'd and dyed in lone, 



And for his lone tryed fortune of the Warrcs, 

And by Warrcs fortune, lost both louc and life. 

Why then sayd Eacus, conucy him hence, 

To walke with Loners in our ficldes of louc, 

And spend the course of cucrlasting time, 

Vnder grcenc Mirtle trees and Cypcrs shades. 

No, no, sayd Rhadamant, it were not well, 

With louing soules, to place a Martialist; 

He died in warre, and must to Martiall lleldes: 

Where wounded Hector Hues in lasting paine, 

And Adiillis mermedons do secure the plaine. 

Then Minos, mildest censor of the three, 

Made this deuice to end the difference. 

Send him (quoth he) to our infcrnall King: 

To cloome him as best seemcs his Maiestic: 

To this effect my pasport straight was drawne, 

In keeping on my way to Plulos Court, 

Through dreadfull shades of cucr glooming night: 

1 saw more sights then thousand tongues can tell, 

Or pcnnes can write, or mortall hartes can thinkc. 

Three wayes there were, that ou the right hand side, 

Was ready way vnto the foresaid fieldcs, 

Where Loners Hue, and bloodic Martialistcs: 

But either sort containd within his boundcs, 

The left hand path declining fcarefullic, 

Was rcadie downcfall to the deepest hell, 

Where bloodic furies shake their whippes of stcele, 

And poorc Ixlou tunics an cndlcs wheele: 

Where Vzurers arc choakt with melting gold, 

And Wantons are imbraste with ouglie Snakes, 

And Murderers grceuc with cuerkilling wo uncles, 

And Periurdc wightcs scalded in boyling lead, 

And all foulc sinnes with tormentes ouerwhelmd, 

Twixt these two wayes, I trode the middle path, 

Which brought inc to the fairc EKzian grcene: 

In midclst whereof, there standes a stately Towre, 

The Wallcs of Brasse, the Gates of Adamant: 

llecre finding Pluto with his Proserpine, 

I shewed my Pasport humbled on my knee: 

Whereat faire Proserpine began to smile, 

And begd that onely she might giuc my cloome. 

Pluto was plcasd, and scald it with a kisse. 

Foorthwith Reuenge she rounded thee in th* care, 

And bade thee lead me through the gates of Horror. 

Then know Andrea, that ihou art armed, 
Where thou shall see the author of thy doalh 
Don 'Balthazar the Prince of l*wtiH$ih\ 
Depriu'd of life by IM-impcria: 
Ileerc sit we downe to see the inisterie, 
And sernc for Chnnis in this Trugedie, 

[Horatio, Mioronyiuo's son, is murdered while with his mintrevi 
Bclimperia, by his rival Balthtr/ur and Holiniporiji'is brothor, 
Lorenzo, Jlieronymo tfoos mad when he disroverN In:; 

son's body. | 

JMy soune, and \vhat *s a sonner 

A thing begot \vithin a pairc of minutes, there about: 

A hunpe bred vp in darkenesse, and doth ticntt* 

To ballaee these light; creatures \ve call \\"oaien: 

And at nine moneths ende, ereepes loorth to li^ht, 

What is there yet in a soime? 

To make a father dote, raue> or runne ntad, 

Being borne, it ponies, erye,s, and broods tooth, 

What is there yet in a sonne? He must In* fed t 

Be taught to goo, and speake l> or yet. 

Why might not a man low: a CalfeVs welt? 

Or melt in passion, ore a frisking Kid, 

As for a sonne, me thinkes a, young Bacon, 

Or a line little smooth Horse-colt 

Should mooue a man, as tnnch as doth a sonne, 

For one of these in very little time, 

Will grow to some good vse, where as u Honw% 

The more he grower in stature and in yetnvs, 

The more vnsquurd, vnbeudled he sippeaivs, 

Reccons his parents among the nmeke of fooler, 

Strikes eare vpon their heads with his mad ryots, 

Makes them lookc oldc, before tltey meet with age: 

This is a sonne: And what a losse were ihw, eonsideiTtl trulv 



but my lioratio t grew out of reach of these 

Insatiate humours: He loued his louing parents, 

lie was my contort, and his mothers ioy, 

The very arme that did holdc vp our house, 

Our hopes were stored vp in him. 

None but a damned murderer could hate him: 

Uc had not scene the backe of nineteenc ycere, 

When his strong arme vnhorst the proud Prince 

And his great niindc too full of Honour, 

Tookc him vs to mercy, that valiant, but ignoble Portingale. 

Well, heauen is heauen still. 

And there is Nemesis and .Furies, 

And things called whippes, 

And they sometimes doe mccte with murderers, 

They doe not alwaycs scape, that's some comfort. 

I, 1, J, and then time steales on: and steales, and steales 

Till violence Icapcs foroth like thunder 

Wrapt in a ball of fire, 

And so doth bring confusion to them all. 

(/, / 'ties 1869 1910.) 


(c. 1553-1616) 

RICHARD HAKLUYT was born about 
1553, and was a member of an old 
Herefordshire family which was 
probably of Welsh origin. He was 
educated at Westminster School, 
and in 1570 proceeded to Christ 
Church, Oxford, where he gradu- 
ated B.A. in 1574 and M.A. in 
1577. He took holy orders as soon 
as he reached the statutory age. 
While he was still a schoolboy, his 
cousin of the Middle Temple, who 
bore the same names as himself 
and who is frequently confused 
with him, directed his attention to 
the study of geography, navigation, 
and exploration; and from that 
time a love of these subjects became 

his ruling passion, He studied 
them at Oxford and lectured on 
them, possibly at Oxford too; he 
wished to found a lectureship on 
them, certainly not at Oxford, more 
probably at RatclifFe or somewhere 
else where seafaring men congre- 
gated. Hakluyt's interest in navi- 
gation and kindred subjects was 
always practical, not academic. In 
1582 he published his first work, 
Divers Voyages touching the dis~ 
cover ie of America at id the Hands 


adjacent unto the same.. In the follow- 
ing year he went to Paris as chap- 
lain to the English embassy, and 
remained there for live years. This 
appears to have been all the travel- 


ling which oar greatest editor of in ifo,|. His last publieation was a 

travels experienced personally. A translation from the Portuguese, 

particular Discourse concerning JIV,v- which he named ! V;/;///w tichly 

tern Discoveries \ws written in 1 584, valued. lie died on .\\n\ Nov., 

but not printed until almost three ifno. 

centuries later. In 1586 he became There is little doubt that the his- 

a prebendary of Bristol, and re- torian I'Vomle^with Hie. best inten- 

turncd to England two years later, lions, did a disservice to Slaklnvt 

In 1589 appeared the first edition when he called his !>;reat \vork 

of his great work, Tlw J*riuci/wl u the prose epic of the modern 

Navigations, Voyages, Tni/jhjuc^am/ English nation M , 1 lis phrase jras 

Discoveries of ///i tinglfsh Nation, sent many i reader to the hook in a 

made by sea or over-land to ihc mood of pleasurable anticipation, 

remote and farthest distant quarters which rapidly disappeared when it 

of the earth, at any lime within flic was discovered that the modern 

compasse of these J$ot> y<m (one Kn<>lish epie included numv Latin 

volume). The second edition, very documents, and numv patents, 

much amplified, was in three letters, instructions, and .so cm, ;u; 

volumes, whieh appeared rcwpec- well as truly epic narrative!"., lint 

tively in 1598, 1599, and 1600, and when the nature of Itakluyt's 

carried the record clown to the year eyelopean compilation in under - 

of publication. Vol. 1 deals with stood, disappointment will vanish 

voyages to the, North and North- in delight, There are few books 

east, and contains 109 narratives; which better repay the exercise of 

Vol. II treats of voyages to the that art which out'jit to he euhi 

South and South-east, and eon- vatetl by all reader;;, lint in which 

tains 165 separate pieces; Vol. Ill lew confess their proficiency the 

has 243 different narratives, coin- art of skipping. The narrative?; of 

meneing with the fabulous dis- many of the early explorer;*, wnt ten 

covery of the West Indies in in many cases by an nnknnun hand* 

1170 by Madoe, and including are unequalled as tales of heroism 

the voyages of Columbus, Cabot, plainly told, Uafduyt was an ideal 

Frobisher, Drake, Hawkins, and editor, a man of tireless energy and 

Raleigh. There arc in all, therefore, assiduity; and though an excellent 

5 17 separate narratives, It is almost writer he kepi himself in the back" 

unnecessary to say that Hakluyt's ground, with admirable jieli' -denial, 

life was uneventful; had it not lie effaced himself and lei his 

been he would not have found time documents r.peak for themselves. 

to edit a compilation of this magni- lie has not written our national 

tude. He was appointed rector of epic, but has left enough material 

Wetheringsett in 1590, prebendary for a whole epic cycle, ' All that is 

of Westminster in 1602, archdeacon wanted in a 1 loiner and a tiehnol of 

in 1603, and chaplain of the Savoy llomeridu'. 


From <c Navigations ? Voyages^ Traffic} ues, 

and Discoveries^ 


Upon the 29 of July in the morning, the Spanish Fleet after the 
foresaid tumult, having arranged themselves again into order, were, 
within sight of Grevcling, most bravely and furiously encountered by 
the English; where they once again got the wind of the Spaniards; who 
suffered themselves to he deprived of the commodity of the plaee in Calais 
road, and of the advantage of the wind near unto Dunkirk, rather than 
they would change their array or separate their forces now conjoined 
and united together, standing onely upon their defence. 

And albeit, there were many excellent and warlike ships in the 
English fleet, yet scarce were there 22 or 23 among them all which 
matched 90 of the Spanish ships in bigness, or could conveniently assault 
them. Wherefore the English ships using their prerogative of nimble 
stirrage, whereby they could turn and wield themselves with the wind 
which way they listed, came often times very near upon the Spaniards, 
and charged them so sore, that now and then they were but a pike's 
length asunder; and so continually giving them one broad-side after 
another, they discharged all their shot both great and small upon them, 
spending one whole day from morning till night in that violent kind of 
conflict, until such time as powder and bullets failed them. In regard 
of which want they thought it convenient not to pursue the Spaniards 
any longer, because they had many great vantages of the English, namely 
for the extraordinary bigness of their ships, and also for that they were 
so nearly conjoined, and kept in so good array, that they could by no 
means be fought withal one to one. The English thought therefore, 
that they had right well acquitted themselves, in chasing the Spaniards 
first from Calais, and then from Dunkirk, and by that means to have 
hindered them for joining with the Duke of Parma his forces, and getting 
the wind of them, to have driven them from, their own coasts. 

The Spaniards that day sustained great loss and damage, having 
many of their ships shot through and through, and they discharged 
likewise great store of ordnance against the English; who indeed sus- 
tained some hindrance, but not comparable to the Spaniards* loss; 
for they lost not any one ship or person of account. For very diligent 
inquisition being made, the English men all that time wherein the Spanish 
Navy sailed upon their seas, are not found to have wanted above one 
hundreth of their people; albeit Sir Francis Drake's ship was pierced 
with shot above forty times, and his very cabin was twice shot through, 
and about the conclusion of the light, the bed of a certain gentleman 

lying weary thereupon, was taken quite from under him with the, force 
of a bullet, Likewise, as the Karl of Norfhmnhciluul and Sir diaries 
Blunt were at dinner upon a time, (he bullet of a <lemi rulverin^ broke 
through the midst: of their cabin* touched their feet, and struck down 
two of the slanders by, \\ith many weh accidents bef,illini; she English 
ships, which it were tedious to rehearse. Whereupon it is mosi apparent 
that God miraculously preserved the Kn^lish nation, For the I,, Admiral 
wrote unto her Majesty that in all human reason, and according to the 
judgment of all men (every circumstance hems 1 ; duly considered) the 
English men were not; of any such force, whereby they nuj'jii, uithoul 
a miracle, dare once to approach within skylit of the Spanish Fleet: in- 
somuch that they freely ascribed all the honour of their victory unto 
God, who had confounded the enemy, and had brought bis counsels 
to none effect. 

The same day the Spanish ships \\ere so lutteted \\iih Knijlish shot, 
that that very night and the day following, two or three of them sank 
right down: and among the rest a certain ^rcat ship of Biscay, \vhich 
Captain Cross assaulted, which perished even in the time of the conflict, 
so that very few therein escaped drowning; \vho icportcd that the 
governors of the same ship slew one another upon itu- OITUMIW following 
one of them which would have yielded the ship was suddenly slain; the 
brother of the slain party in revenue of his death slr\v the murderer, and 
in the meanwhile the ship sank. 

The same night two Portugal galleons of the burden of se\en or eight 
hundred tons apiece, to wit the Saint Philip and the Saint Matthew, were 
forsaken of the Spanish Fleet, for they \vere so torn with shot that the 
water entered into them on all aides, "in the galleon of Saint Philip was 
Francis de Toledo, brother unto the Count de Orja:; f bctntt < olonel 
over two and thirty bawls: besides other KentU'UU'n;' who Nccin^ their 
mast broken with shot, they shaped their course, as \\eil a-, they mild, 
for the coast of Flanders: whither when they rould not attain, the 
principal men in the ship committing themselves to their .skill', arrived 
at the next town, which was Osteml; and the tthip itself bein^ left behind 
with the residue of their company, was taken by the VluihitijWM, 

In the other galleon, called the H. Matthew, wan embarkrd Don 
Diego Pwnentclli, another cump-miwter and colonel of v* luiwl*, lu-wtf 
brother unto the Marquis of Tamnams, with many other ^utlnufa ami 
captains. Their ship was not very great, but cxi'mliutf atroti^ for of a 
great number of bullets which had battered her, there were scarce 20 
wherewith she was pierced or hurt: her upper uork wiw of force 
sufficient to bear of! a musket shot: thin ship wan nhot through ami pierced 
m the fight before Graveling; insomuch that the leakage of the water 
could not be stopped: whereupon the Duke of Medina .sent Im great 
skift unto the governor thereof, that he might save hinwclf ami the principal 


persons that were in his ship: which he, upon a halt courage, refused to 
do: wherefore the Duke charged him to sail next unto himself: which 
the night following he could not perform, by reason of the great abundance 
of water which entered his ship on all sides; for the avoiding whereof, 
and to save his ship from sinking, lie caused 50 men continually to labour 
at the pump, though it were to small purpose. And seeing himself thus 
forsaken and separated from his admiral, he endeavoured what he could 
to attain unto the coast of Flanders: where, being espied by 4 or 5 men 
of war, which had their station assigned them upon the same coast, he 
was admonished to yield himself unto them. Which he refusing to do, 
was strongly assaulted by them altogether, and his ship being pierced 
with many bullets, was brought into far worse case than before, and 
40 of his soldiers were slain. By which extremity he was enforced at 
length to yield himself unto Peter Banderducss and other captains, which 
brought him and his ship into Zelancl; and that other ship also last before 
mentioned: which both of them, immediately after the greater and better 
part of their goods were unladen, sank right down. 

For the memory of this exploit, the forcsaid Captain Bandcrduess 
caused the banner of one of these ships to be set up in the great Church 
of Leyden in Holland, which is of so great a length, that being fastened 
to the very roof, it reached down to the ground. 

About the same time another small ship being by necessity driven 
upon the coast of Flanders, about Blankcnberg, was cast away upon the 
sands, the people therein being saved. Thus almighty God would have 
the Spaniards* huge ships to be presented, not only to the view of the 
English, but also of the Zclandcrs; that at the sight of them they might 
acknowledge of what small ability they had been to resist such impregnable 
forces, had not God endued them with courage, providence, and fortitude, 
yea, and fought for them in many places with his own arm. 

The 29 of July the Spanish fleet being encountered by the English 
(as is aforesaid) and lying close together under their fighting sails, with 
a south-west wind sailed past Dunkirk, the English ships still following 
the chase. Of whom the day following when the Spaniards had got sea 
room, they cut their main sails; whereby they sufficiently declared that 
they meant no longer to fight but to fly. For which cause the L. Admiral 
of England despatched the L. Henry Scymer with his squadron of small 
bhips unto the coast of Flanders, where, with the help of the Dutch ships, 
he might stop the Prince of Parma his passage, if perhaps he should attempt 
to issue forth with his army. And he himself in the mean space pursued 
the Spanish fleet until the second of August, because he thought they 
had set sail for Scotland. And albeit he followed them very near, yet 
did he not assault them any more, for want of powder and bullets. But 
upon the fourth of August, the wind arising, when as the Spaniards 
had spread all their sails, betaking themselves wholly to flight, and 


leaving Scotland on the left hand, trended fo\\,ird Noruay (uhereby 
they suffieicntly declared that their whole intent \v,u; to save tluMnsrlvcs 
by flight, attempting for that purpose, with their haUnvd and rra^etl 
ships, the most clangorous navigation of the Northern ;;e,i:,) thr Kn!;lir,h 
seeing that they were now proceeded unto the laiitudr of 57 drtTees 
and being unwilling to participate that danger \\hrrnuto the Spaniards 
plunged themselves, and because they wanted thin;';! necessary, ami 
especially powder and shot, returned back for Kupjand; leaving behind 
them certain pinnaces only, winch they enjoined to i'ollmv the Spaniards 
aloof, and to observe their course. And :;o it came to pa /; that the fourth 
of August with groat danger and industry, the Ku<di;;h arrived af Ilarwieh: 
for they had been loosed up and down \vlth a mhdttv tetnpeut for the 
space of two or three days together, which it is likely did j^'eat hurt unto 
the Spanish fleet, being (as I said, before) :;o maimed ami battered* The 
English now going on whore, provided themselves forthwith of \ietnals, 
gunpowder, and other things expedient, that they uiirjif be ready at all 
assays to entertain the Spanish lleet, if it clmnerd any more to return. 
But being afterward more certainly informed of tin* Spanuuls* course, 
they thought it best to leave them unto those'ou-i f md tmeonth 
Northern seas, and not; there to hunt after them. 

The Spaniards seeing now that they wanted four or Jive thousand 
of their people and having divers maimed ami sieK per;on; s and likewise- 
having lost 10 or u of their principal ships, they consulted umou^ them- 
selves, what they were best to do, beiu^ now escaped out of the hands 
of the English, because their victuals failed them in like soil, that they 
began also to want cables, cordage, anchors, masts, saiK ami otlirr naval 
furniture, and utterly despaired of the Duke of t'.irnu bis a,va:iafH'c 
(who verily hoping and undoubtedly expecting the return of fbe Spanish 
Fleet, was continually occupied about his tfreat preparation, commanding 
abundance of anchors to be made, and other necessary furniture for a 
Navy to be provided) they thought it [rood at length, :tn'j;onu us the uiud 
should serve them, to fetch a compass about Scotland am! Irrlmd, and 
so to return for Spain. 

For they well understood, that commandment was ^iveu throughout 
all Scotland, that they should not have any sueeour or assistance there, 
Neither yrt could they in Norway supply their wants, \YItereiotr,, laving 
taken certain Scottish and other fisherhnatH, they brought thr men oil 
board their ships, to the end they might be their K uidiM and Pilot*, 
Fearing also lest their fresh, water should foil them, they w.i all their 
horses and mules overboard; and so touching nowhere upon the roust 
of bcptland, but being carried with a fresh ^ule between the Omulea 
and 1'aar-Islcs, they proceeded far North, even unto (n decrees of latitude, 
being distant from any land at the least 40 leagues Here the Duke of 
Medina general of the Fleet commanded all his followers to :diupe their 


course for Biscay: and he himself with twenty or five and twenty of 
his ships which were best provided of fresh water and other necessaries, 
holding on his course over the main Ocean, returned safely home. The 
residue of his ships being about forty in number, and committed unto 
his Vice-admiral, fell nearer with the coast of Ireland, intending their 
course for Cape Clear, because they hoped there to get fresh water, and 
to refresh themselves on land. Bat after they were driven with many 
contrary winds, at length, upon the second of September, they were 
cast by a tempest arising from the southwest upon divers parts of Ireland, 
where many of their ships perished. And amongst others, the ship of 
Michael de Qquendo, which was one of the great Galliasses: and two 
great ships of Venice also, namely, la Ratta and Bclanzara, with other 
36 or 38 ships more, which perished in sundry tempests, together with 
most of the persons contained in them . 

Likewise some of the Spanish ships were the second time carried 
with a strong west wind into the Channel of England, whereof some 
were taken by the English upon their coast, and others by the men of 
Rochelle upon the coast of France. 

Moreover, there arrived at Newhavcn, in Normandy, being by tempest 
enforced so to do, one of the four great Galliasses, where they found 
the ships with the Spanish women which followed the Fleet at their 
setting forth. Two ships also were cast away upon the coast of Norway, 
one of them being of a great burden; howbeit all the persons in the said 
great ship were saved: insomuch that of 134 ships, which set sail out of 
Portugal, there returned home 53 only small and great: namely of the 
four galliasscs but one, and but one of the four galleys. Of the 91 great 
galleons and hulks there were missing 58 and 33 returned: of the pataches 
and zabraes 17 were missing, and 18 returned home. In brief, there 
were missing 81 ships, in which number were galliasses, galleys, galleons, 
and other vessels, both great and small. And amongst the 53 ships 
remaining, those also are reckoned which returned home before they 
came into the English Channel. Two galleons of those which were returned, 
were by misfortune burnt as they rode in the haven; and such like 
mishaps did many others undergo. Of 30,000 persons which went in 
this expedition, there perished (according to the number and proportion 
of the ships) the greater and better part; and many of them which came 
home, by reason of the toils and inconveniences which they sustained 
in this voyage, died not long after their arrival, The Duke of Medina 
immediately upon his return was deposed from his authority, commanded 
to his private house, and forbidden to repair unto the Court; where he 
could hardly satisfy or yield a reason unto his malicious enemies and 
backbiters. Many honourable personages and men of great renown 
deceased soon after their return; as namely John Martines de Ricalde, 
with divers others. A great part also of the Spanish Nobility and Gentry 


employed in this expedition perished either by lijihu di.'ieases, or drowning 
before their arrival; and awonjs (he re:;! Th<mia:; Perenni <f (Jrnmlneil 
a Dutchman, being Karl of runtcbroi, nnd son unto Cardinal (iramlwlPs 


Upon the coast of //eland Don Die^o (Jr t>nncntell brother unto the 
Marquis dc Tainnares, aiul kinsman unto the Marl uf" Ueneventnm and 
Calua, and Colonel over 32 InuuUi with inanv other in the ;,,une ship 
was taken and detained as prisoner in '/eUml. 

Into England (as we .said before) Don Pedro de Vahle'/, a man of 
singular experience, and greatly honoured in his country, \w; led eaptive, 
being accompanied with Don Yasquex de Silva, Don Aloir/o dr Sayus, 

and others. 

Likewise upon the Scottish Western IsUr. of I, mis, and Islay, and 
about Cape Kintyrc upon the mainland, there \\ere ea;,t away certain 
Spanish ships, out of which were saved divers Captain:; ami <ientlemen, 
and almost four hundred soldiers, who lor the tnoM part, after their hip- 
wreck, were brought unto Edinburgh in Scotland, and luinj'; miserably 
needy and naked, were there clothed at the liberality of the Ktn^ ;m d 
the Merchants, and afterward were secretly shipped tor Spain; but 
the Scottish licet wherein they passed tourhinr, at Yarmouth on the 
coast of Norfolk, were there stayed for a time until the ('ouiinPn pleasure 
was known; who in regard of their manifold tn^em*:;, thnm*h they were 
enemies, winked at their passage. 

Upon the Irish, coast many of their Noblemen and (Jentlemen were 
drowned; and divers slain by the barbarous and wild ln:.h, llmvbeit 
there was brought prisoner out of Ireland, Dun Alon/o de I, neon, 
Colonel of two and thirty bands, commonly called a ter/ii of Naples; 
together with Rodorigo de Lasso, and two others of the family of ( "ordnvu, 
who were committal unto the custody of Sir Horatio Rdavicini, that 
Monsieur de Teligny the son of Monsieur de None (who beintf taken 
in fight near Antwerp , was detained prisoner in the t'astle of Turney) 
might be ransomed for them by way of exchange, To owclwle, there 
was no famous nor worthy family in all Spain, which in this expedition 
lost not a son, a brother, or u kinsman, 

For the perpetual memory of thin matter, the XelamlerM caused new 
coia of silver and brass to be stumped: which on the one Mile contained 
the arms of Zeland, with this inscription; <Ju>KY TO tiot* ONLY: anil 
on the other side, the pictures of certain great ships, with thru* \vonb: 
THE SPANISH FLKKT; ami in the circutufcrcnct; about the* jihijw; IT 
CAME, WENT, AND WAS. Anno 1588, That is to aav, the Spanish fleet 
came, went, and was vanquished this year; for which, jjiory be. ftiven 
to God only. 

Likewise they coined another kind of money; upon the, otic wide 
whereof was represented a ship fleeing and u Khip winking on the other 


side four men making prayers and giving thanks unto God upon their 
knees; with this sentence: Man purposcth, (Joel disposcth. 1588. Also, 
for the lasting memory of the same matter, they have stamped in Holland 
divers such like coins, according to the custom of the ancient Romans. 

While this wonderful and puissant Navy was sailing along the English 
coasts, and all men did now plainly see and hear that which before they 
would not be persuaded of, all people throughout England prostrated 
themselves with humble prayers and supplications unto God: but 
especially the outlandish Churches (who had greatest cause to fear, and 
against whom by name, the Spaniards had threatened most grievous 
torments) enjoined to their people continual fastings and supplications, 
that they might turn away God's wrath and fury now imminent upon them 
for their sins: knowing right well, that prayer was the only refuge against 
all enemies, calamities, and necessities, and that it was the only solace 
and relief for mankind, being visited with allliction and misery. Likewise 
such solemn days of supplication were observed throughout the united 

Also a while after the Spanish Fleet was departed, there was in England, 
by the commandment of her Majesty, and in the united Provinces, by 
the direction of the States, a solemn festival day publicly appointed, 
wherein alt persons were enjoined to resort unto the Church, and there 
to rentier thanks and praises unto God: and the Preachers were commanded 
to exhort the people thereunto. The forcsaid solemnity was observed 
upon the 29 of November; which day was wholly spent in fasting, prayer, 
and giving of thanks. 

Likewise, the Queen's Majesty herself, imitating the ancient Romans, 
rode into London in triumph, in regard of her own and her subjects 1 
glorious deliverance. For being attended upon very solemnly by all 
the principal estates and officers of her Realm, she was carried through 
her said City of London in a triumphant chariot, and in robes of triumph, 
from her Palace unto the Cathedral Church of Saint Paul, out of the 
which the ensigns and colours of the vanquished Spaniards hung dis- 
played. And all the Citizens of London in their Liveries stood on either 
side the street, by their several Companies, with their ensigns and 
banners: and the streets were hanged on both sides with blue cloth, 
which, together with the forcsaid banners, yielded a very stately and 
gallant prospect. Her Majesty being entered into the Church, together 
with her Clergy and Nobles gave thanks unto God, and caused a public 
Sermon to be preached before her at Paul's cross; wherein none other 
argument was handled, but that praise, honour, and glory might be 
rendered unto God, and that God's name might be extolled by thanks- 
giving. And with her own princely voice she most Christianly exhorted 
the people to do the same: whereupon the people with a loud acclamation 
wished, her a most long and happy life, to the confusion of her foes. 


Thus the magnificent, huflc, and mighty lleet nf the Spaniards (which 
themselves termed in all places inviwiblo) such a:; :;ailnl not upon the 
Ocean sea many hundred years before, in the year 15X8 \,mi.ihed into 
smoke; to the great confusion and disenur.i^nneut of the ;wilwrs 
thereof. In regard of which her Majesty';; happy :.mvr;:; all her 
neighbours and friends congratulated with her, and many were, 
penned to the honour of her Majesty by learned men, whereof ;ome 
which came to our hands \vc \vi!I here annex, 

'tt fmtn ////' Latin nf Knuinnd vvw 

(? 1558 1609) 

WILLIAM WAKNHR was horn in 
London about 1558, and was 
educated at Magdalen Hall, Ox- 
ford, but did not graduate, lie 
acquired u sound reputation as a 
lawyer, and a much wider fame as 
a man of letters, He appears to 
have been u protege of the iirst and 
second Lords Ilunmkm, who both 
held the office of Lord Chamberlain, 
We know little more about him 
than the entry of his death in the 
parish register tells us- u Master 
William Warner, a man of good 
yeares and of honest reputation; 
by profession an attornye of the 
common pleas, author of"* Albion's 
England' " Warner's literary 
works consist of Pan A/V tiyritix 
(1585), a collection of seven prose 
tales; a translation of the M'- 
naechml of Plautus (1595), which 
Shakespeare may have* aeon in 
manuscript before he wrote Tlw 
Comedy of Errors; and Albion's 
England (ist cd. 1586), The prone 
tales are not of much account. The 
translation of Hautus is not quite 
certainly Warner's, as it is ascribed 
to him only on the strength of his 

initials; It in merelv uf infereM on 
mvcmnt of itu atln^-d eonne\ion 
with Shakcx'jpeare, l//>/Vi*,v A>^. 
fern/, htn\evet\ is an important 
poeuu not only in hulk, but in 
certain \ivid ami pnueri'nl qttaiities. 
It in an Iiisturir.d or rpK(du' ponn 
in fourteen-MytluUlt* et>upl<*t!J, The 
iirst edition eoutaitird totir books, 
beginninfj with Noah and ending 
with William the C 'ontjurror. ( )ther 
editions earried on thr ritory to Inter 
and even contemporary eventn, so 
that the limd (p<ruluuuotts) etlititni 
of tOu was in :u\teeu books, and 
inehuletl **lhe tnoiit rhief Altent" 
tioim and AecitlrntH , . . in the 
, * . Raii^ne of , , , Kiujj J 
Warner was not, an the e*r 

1'Vaneis Meren 



inh Homer *'; hut liiti poem is 
vigorous ;uul unpreteiifiniiH, and 
its tedium LH reiitned by ntinin^ 
ptWHU^OH. Jiul^inR by the number 
of editions (JU*VTU in twenty -nix 
years), it wan e.\trcmrlv popular; 
and while thin popularity wan 
doubtless due, in part to the 
patriotic quulitteH of the poem, it 
was nlso due t< merit of a more 


solid kind. It ousted The Mirror Warner Is of interest as an almost 

of Magistrates from popular favour, unique example of an English- 

and in its turn was to some man of his generation who was 

extent ousted by Dray ton's Poly- quite xmtouchccl by Italian influ- 

olbion. To the literary historian cnccs. 

Albion's England 


The Spanyards* long time care and coste, invincible surnamed, 

Was now a flote, whilst Parma too from Flanders hither aimed. 

Like flccte of cightscorc ships and od the ocean, never bore, 

So huge, so strong, and so eompleate in every strength and store. 

Carikcs, gallons, argosies, and galiasses such 

That seemed so many castles and their tops the cloudcs to tuch. 

These on the Lizarcles show themselves, and threaten England's fall: 

But thcare with fiftie shippcs of ours that flecte was fought withalL 

Ilowbeit of a greater sorte our navie did consist, 

But partc kept died in the portc that might of health have mistc, 

Had Spam's armada of our wants iu Plimnorth's haven wiste. 

The rcstc had eye on Parma, that from Flanders' armoor thrcatcs: 

Meanwhile lord Charles our admiral and Drake did worthy feats. 

Whose fcarclcss fiftie moole-hils bod their trypeld inountaines bacc, 

And even at first (so pleas'd it God) pursewed as if in chace: 

By this (for over idle seemed to English hearts the shore) 

Our gallants did embark cacli-wheare, and made our forces more. 

But in such warlike order then their shippes at anker laye 

That we, unlcs we them disperse, on booties labour staye: 

Nor lacked policie that to that purpose made us wayc. 

Ours fyred divers shippes, that downe the current sent so skaerd, 

That cables cut and ankers lost the Spanyards badly faered. 

Dispersed thus, we spare not shot, and part of them we sinke, 

And part we boord, the rest did flye, not fast enough they thinke. 

Well guided little axes so force tallest oaks to fall, 

So numbrous herds of stately harts fly beagles few and small. 

Nine days together chased we them, not actions save in flight. 

About eight thowsands perished by famine, sea and fight. 

For treasure, shippes and carrages, lost honor, prisoners taync 

The Spaniards, hardly scaping hence scapt not rebukes in Spaine. 

Well might thus much (as much it did) cheer England, but much more 

Concurrancie from one to all to stop that common sore. 

Even Catholiques (that erred name doth please the papists) wacr 

As forward in this quarrel as the formost arms to bear: 


Recusants and suspects of note of nth was the eacr 

And had not our (Jod-^uided Isjdit on SUMS pre\ ailed, \e( 

The Spaniards, land wherso they eould had with our armies wet. 

Our common courage wished no lesse MO lightly feanl we fncs f 

Such hope in (Jod, such hate of them, :meh hoait?! lo barter blocs, 

Hccrc llam'd the Cyclops* forces, Mar;; his armour was heere, 

Himself he shcuds in us and with our cause oiw.elvc:; we eheere. 

But (which has searreHde our wounds, if \\oum!e<l, with the hahtu; 

Of hot swede presence t so applauded as in sea'-stormeM a eahne) 

Her royall self, Elizabeth our soveratf*ne Imfull qneem\ 

In nuignanimknis majestic amidst her troupes \\.is neene, 

Which made us vveepe for joy; nor was her kitulues Irsse to us, 

Thinke nothing letting them that mi^ht the t-numuut eattne diseus, 

Wheare |)rince and people have in love a sympathie as ihus 

Howbeit, force nor poliete, hut (?od\s sole provideui j e, 

Did clcare, fore-boasted eoiujuest and brln^hted liiraldome hcnre, 

lie in Sanchcrib his nose did put his hooKe aiul brcMirjii 

Him back again the way he came, without performing outfit; 

He fought tor us, alouely we did shout aud trumpet-* nomul, 

When as the wallcs of Jerico tell flat unto the ^mutuL 

Yea least (for carst did never heere like strong supplie.*; befall, 

Like loyall hearts in everyone, like \\ur-liho inindes in all, 

Less spaer of purses, more foresight, antl valiant j^nides trt ad 

As shcwdo our bardie little licet that batted rnner nlaekf ,) 

Lcastc, I say, might have been sayd tbc eause that we subdewMe, 

Even (Jod, to Rlorilic hinwclfe, our ^aynetl euiutr juiirin\Mr, 

Without our losse of num, or ma;U> or foe oiu'e tondunf* sliore, 

Save such as \vruckl, weare prisnors, or but hmdtui% livM not uuire; 

And as in publique praiers we did IUH defeuee implot(% 

So being victors, publiquely, we yiehknl thanks therlore, 

Her higncs selfe feood cause she had) in view of exerie eye f 

On humbled kuees did give him thanks that |?ave her \Vtoric. 

Remainetb, what she woune, what Spaiueaiul Kome did lne in fame: 

Rcmaineth, popes use potentaten but to retrive their i\,um\ 


( ? '557 "i 593) 

THOMAS WATSON was horn iu and appears to have been a man of 
London about 1557, and was per- independent niean:i and an en- 
haps educated at Oxford. lie, thiwiart for poetry ami mutiie. He 
studied law, but not very seriously, was one of the best l,atiniw o!' his 


day, and translated into Latin 
Petrarch's sonnets, Tasso's A win la, 
and the Antigone of Sophocles. lie 
was also well, read in Italian and 
French literature, lie was a man 
of a scholarly, not to say pedantic 
east of mind; and when he en- 
deavoured to write English verse, he 
reclined quite openly on the bosom 
of Petrarch, Ronsard, and other 
less celebrated writers. His first 
volume of verse, KKATOMIIA01A, 
or Passionate CcnluHe of Love,, 
appeared in 1582. It contained 
a hundred poems which the 
author insisted on calling sonnets, 
though each contains eighteen lines 
(three repetitions of the form found 
in the last six lines of a Shake- 
spearean sonnet). Watson had the 
soul of a scholiast, and wrote a 
curious prose commentary on each 
of his frigid poems, explaining 
their origin and quoting parallel 
passages, lie seems to have been 
the first or among the first to double 

the role of author and commen- 
tator, as Jonson did a generation 
later, to the detriment of his work. 
His second volume, The Tears of 
Fanclc, or Love Disdained, appeared 
posthumously in 1593. It is more 
correct than the earlier volume, as 
its sonnets contain fourteen lines, 
but it is equally frigid. " The truest 
poetry is the most feigning "; and 
there is no feigning at all in Wat- 
son's work. His love and despair 
are all quite obviously make-believe. 
He is of importance as a competent 
though not accomplished metrician, 
as an early sonneteer, and as a popu- 
larise!" of artificial love poetry, His 
influence on greater sonneteers, 
who infused real passion into their 
poetry, was great. Sidney and 
Shakespeare studied his work. The 
egregious Francis Meres groups 
Watson with Shakespeare, Mar- 
lowe, and others as " best for 
tragedie ", but his dramatic writ- 
ings, if they ever existed, are lost. 

Passionate Centime of Love 


In this passion the Author describeth in how pitious a case the hart 
of a loner is, being (as he fayneth heere) scperatcd from his owne body, 
and rcmoucd into a darksome and solitarie wildernes of woes. The eon- 
ueyance of his inuention is plaine and pleasant enough of it sclfc, and 
therefore necdeth the lesse annotation before it. 

My harte is sett him downe twixt hope and feares 
Vpon the stonie banke of high desire, 
To view his own made flud of blubbering teares 
Whose waues are bitter salt, and hote as lire: 
There blowcs no blast of wind but ghostly grones 
Nor waues make other noyse then pitious moanes. 
As life were spent he waiteth Charons boate, 
And thinkes he dwells on side of Stigian lake: 
But blackc clespaire some times with open throatc, 
Or spightfull lelousie doth cause him quake, 
With howlinge shrikes on him they call and crie 

That he as yet shall nether Hue nor die: 
VOL. u. 

Audwantelh voyce to make his iur.t complaint. 

^ * 

No llowr hut lHacyntli in nil the plaa\ 
No sunnc conies there, nor any hean'nly r.ainle, 
But: onely slice, which in him selie remaines, 
And ioyes her case though he ahound in p, lines, 


This passion of loue is liuely expressed by thr Anthonr, in thai ho lauishlm 
praiseth the person and hcauttfull ornainrnuv; of his lour. one after an 
other as they He in order, lie partly imitatoth horein , Irmw SV/wj/,v, who 
scttoth downc the like in ilruerihintf 7.fT<7/</ thr lour of /','w\Wf/v; ami 
partly he followeih slrhusto t'tint* y, where he uV-tenhcth Jfchut: and partly 
borrowcth from some others where they <Ie;;eriho the tauunj;; //c/r;/ 
Greece: you may therefore, if you please aptlie eall thi'i raumot a-, a SrlmUe 
of good iutl^onienl; hath already ('hnstenoil it r^i.'v/; ;:; / ( , 


1 lurkc you that list to heare what salute 1 Menu,*; 
Her yellowc Incites exeeede the heafen fmuKle; 
Her sparkelin^ eies in heatt'n a plare de-'.erue; 
Her forehead hi^h and i'aire of eoniety rnonhle; 

Her wordes are nuusieke all of Miner :;oumto; 

Her \vii so sharpe as like ean seatso hr foutul: 
Haehcyehrowe han^e:s like Ins in the :.kte;j; 
Her AV/#/<\v nose is straight of stately frame; 
On either ehecke a, Rust* and Utlfr lies; 
Her breath is sweet tr iHn'fume, or liollio flame; 

Her lips more red than any ^ f wv///Miune; 

Her nceke more white, then ;tf*ed Swum that ntone; 
Her breat Lnmsparent is, like (liristall roeke; 
Her lingers long t lit for ;f/m//m\v; 
Her slipper such us Momus tlare not mtuio; 
Her vcrlucs all so great as make me mute: 

What other purtes t;he hath I write not tuy, 

Whose face alone is cause of my deeaye, 


In this sonnet is couertly sd forth, how pli-asaimt a pavuun the Author 
one day cnioyed, when by chance he ouerimrde hirt minim, whtKr nlie xvas 
singing pnuately by her aelfe; And one after into Itowe ujmivvtuU a dumpe 
or soundcn cxtaaio be fell, when vpon the iint Hfoht of hint tilu* uhruntlu* 

nmshed her song and melodte. 

Gouklcn bird and Phcntx of our ajt* f 

Whose sweete records and more then earthly voier 

By wondrous force did then my gride uuige 

When nothing els could make mv heart reiom\ 
* * * 


Thy teuncs (no doubt) had made a later end, 

If thou hadst knowen how much they stood my Trend . 

When silence dround the latter warbling noate, 

A sudden gricfe celypst my former ioyc, 

My life it selfe in calling Carom boate 

Did sigh, and say, that pleasure brought anoy; 
And blam'd mine eare for listning to the sound 
Of such a songc, as had increast my wound. 

My heauic heart rcmcmbring what was past 

Did sorrowe more than any toungc can tell; 

As did the damned soules that stoodc agast, 

When Orpheus with his wife retum'd from hell: 
Yet who would think, that Musicke which is swete, 
In curing paincs could cause clelitcs to fleete? 


This Passion conteineth a relation through out from line to line; as, 
from eucry line of the first stafFe as it standcth in order, vnto eucry line 
of the second staffe; and from the second stafle vnto the third. The oftener 
it is read of him that is no great clarke, the more pleasure he shall haue 
in it. And this posic a scholler set down ouer this Sonnet, when he, had 
well considered of it: Tarn casu, quam arte et industria. The two first lines 
are an imitation of Scrap/line , Sonnctto 103. 

Col tempo el Villanello al giogo mena 
El Tor si fiero, e si crudo animalc, 
Col tempo cl Falcon s'vsa a mcnar Talc 
E ritornare a te chiamando It pena. 

Jn time the Bull is brought to weare the yoake; 

In time all haggred Haukcs will stoope the Lures; 

In time small wedge will cleaue the sturdiest Oake; 

In time the Marble weares with weakest shewres: 
More fierce is my sweete hue more hard withall, 
Then Beast, or Birde, then Tree, or Stony wall. 

No yoake preuailcs, shee will not yeeld to might; 

No Lure will cause her stoope, she bearcs full gorge; 

No wedge of woes make printe, she reakes no right; 

No shewre of tears can moue, she thinkes I forge: 
Helpe therefore Heau'nly Boy, come perce her brcst 
With that same shaft, which robbes me of my rest. 

So let her feele thy force, that she relent; 

So keepe her lowe, that she vouchsafe a pray; 

So frame her will to right, that pride be spent; 

So forge, that I may speede without delay; 
Which if thou do, Fie sweare, and singe with ioy, 
That Lone no longer is a blinded Boy. 

Here the Authour after some dolomns diseoun.r nt in-; \nhappiiu\s, 
and reheursall of some particular !wrtc:i whieh lu* susteineth in the puriuiu* 

/ i _ i ,. i.,.,,,.. t "". ..,,,** / . 1 1 , <* It \t\t\t 1i it-ifn ln'i i .tit r \* ill Iti'i H(M/*rfi" M-M<! 

and 1 "CllUill MUUVH.inVIHV JF**I ** .,,.,,. T , ..,., -,- .-,,,,,,,,,. , . % , , v j'^Jt^um,- 

of his loue: first questioneth with hr. /^f/v of his de-ierte; and thrn, as 
hauin^c made a Hullieiente proofe of his ^twoenuA, pers\\adeth tier to 
pitic him, whom she herselfe hatlj hurte. Moreouer it i- to lx; noted, drat 
the first letters of all the verses in this Passion hein^ inynrd (<>?>rduT a:? 
they stand, do conteine this posie a.s'.reeable to his nu-aninn;, , Irnm' me ^".'* 
ct wit. 

A A World of woes doth raume within my hrest, 

m My pcnsiue thou^htes arc con'rcd all with care, 
o Of all that sintf the *SV<v;//;/c doth please me be:;!, 
r Restraint of ioyes exiles my uoonteil lare, 

Mad wooded Lone vsurpiiu? Keas<ns place 

l^xtremitie doth oner rnle the ease. 
Paine drieth \p my vainer, and \ttall blond, 
u Vnlesse the *SV//// 1 scnu* iene hclpe in time: 
n None els, but she alone, can do me j,nod> 
g (iranni then ye (Joils, that lirst she ma\ not clime 
i Jmmortall hcan*iis, to Hue with Sttintt^ ahtue 
t Then she \ouehsafc to \echl me lone for lone 


K Examine well the time of my distresse 

t Thou dainty l)ttnu\ of whom 1 pint* a\\a\ 

V Vnguyltie llioti^h, as ueedes thou must coidcsse, 

r Remcmbrin^ but (he eatise of my decay; 
i In vowing lb\" ^weete face my iwefe, 

1 i A/ f ' S ) 

t Therefore in lyine vouehsafe me some relief e. 




son of Hugh Mont^omeric of 
Hcssilhcad Castle, Ayrshire, awl 
was born about 1556* Wo do not 
know where he* was educated, 
though his poems attest that lie 
was a man of considerable cull tire. 
He entered the king's aerviee, was 
styled " captain ", by courtesy or 
otherwise, and became scmi-ofli- 
cially Poet Laureate to the court. 
He fell into disgrace, it is not known 

why or when, and nvetved a pen 
sion \vhieh wati irregular! v paid, 
lie heeame a man \\ith a ^rievamT, 
which he aired, in many of his 
poenus, thereby 1 iiuj'Kiirtug their 
interest, l*o add to hit* discontent- 
ment 1 he luH*ame involved in a 
lengthy lawsuit roneernhif; hin pfn- 
sion, atul although la* wan in die 
eiul sueecssful in his suit, Inn eon* 
vietiun that he \\;u an injtired num 
became Htron^er and stronger. So 



little do we know of his later years 
that his death has been dated as 
early as 1591 and as late as 1614. 

By far the most famous of Mont- 
gomeric's poems is The Cherrie and 
the Slae (printed 1597), an allegori- 
cal poem whose key is lost, or per- 
haps it would be more correct to 
say that the reader is offered by the 
critics an embarrassing multiplicity 
of keys for it. It is a poem of about 
1600 lines written in peculiar 
fourtcen-linc stanzas a metrical 
form of some intricacy which 
Montgomerie invented or popu- 
larized. Many of its stanzas are 
fresh and vigorous, and show a 
genuine love of nature. It is free 
from the aureate style. The Ply ting 
betwixt Montgomery and Polwart 
(published 1621) is an imitation of 
D unbar *s notorious poem, which 
it equals in scurrility but not in the 
exuberance of its verbosity. The 
Mind's Melodic j a version of some 
of the Psalms and other spiritual 
songs, is more creditable to Mont- 
gomerie's piety than to his poetical 
gifts. His sonnets and miscellaneous 
poems are for the most part good 

when they are amatory or occa- 
sional, poor when they are devo- 
tional, and contemptible when they 
sing the praises of King James. 
Montgomerie is, for several reasons, 
an interesting figure in literary 
history. Although he was only some 
eight years Shakespeare's senior, 
he belongs in everything but date 
to the fifteenth century. lie is what 
physiologists term a " throw-back " 
to the age of Dunbar, with his 
allegories, fly tings, and curiously 
complicated metres. lie also pos- 
sesses the melancholy interest which 
attaches to the last survivor of any 
school of literature. He is the last 
of the il makaris ", Aytoun, the 
Earl of Stirling, and other poets of 
Scottish birtli followed English 
models and adopted an entirely 
English vocabulary. 

[Dr. James Cranstoun edited 
Montgomerie's Poems for the 
S.T.S. in three volumes in 1887; 
twenty years later a useful supple- 
mentary volume, edited by Mr. 
George Stevenson, gave a better 
text of The Cherrie and the Side 
from Laing MS. No. 447.] 

Off the Cherrie and the Slae 

About ane bank, quhair birdis on bewis 

Ten. thousand tymes thair nottis rcnewis 

Ilk hour into the day, 

Quhair merle and maveis mieht be sene, 

With progne and with phclomcnc, 

Quhilk causit me to stay. 

I lay and lenit me to anc buss, 

To heir the birdis heir; 

Thair mirth was so melodius, 

Throw nature of the yeir: 

Sum singing, sum springing, 

So hcich into the skyc; 

So nitnlie and trimlie 

Thir birdis flew me by. 


I saw the hnrehnn atul the hair, 

Quhilk foci amange the ilouris Mr, 

war happin to aiul I'm: 

1 saw the nvnynj 1 ; and thr kat, 

Quhais downis \\ith the dew was \\at 

With inony bcistis nut, 

The haul, the hynd, the <la, the* nu\ 

the fumarl, and the fox, 

\vius skippin all frome bray t<> hray, 

Aiming the waiter hrokis; 

Sum fcidding, sum dreitldini% 

In cais ofsudclnno snairis; 

With skipping, atul trippin, 

thay hanttit ay in pairis. 

The air was so atk'mperaf , 

But ony mist; Immaeulatt, 

Raitli purdVil, ;uul eloir; 

The icihlis ovver all was flureisehit* 

As nalour haid thanie uurisehitt, 

Hayth delicat; and ileii" 

And eticrie blume on hranrhe and lunvr 

So prettillic thay npred, 

hingan^ tlwir hcidis out nwtn 1 the hcueh, 

In inayis eullour clod; 

Sum knapping Sum drappin^ 

01" bahnie litjuor sxvt'it, 

Destellin^ and smelling 

Throw phehus lielsnm licit, 

The Coukou and the eussatf ervid, 


the turtill, on the vther syile, 

Na picture haid in play: 

Sua schill in sorow wu hir anj,% 

That with hir voee tlie roehis nui|^ 

for echo ansucrit ay, 

Lanicntln^ still NurciHsus* eats, 

That fitcnut at the well; 

Quha throw the schaclow of his fact* 

for luif did slay him sell: 

Sair wciping and ereiping, 

about that well he baitl; 

Quhylis lying, quhylis eryijig 

Bot it na ansuer maid. 


The dew as dyamontis did hiug 

Vpoun the tender twiskis ying, 

Owcrtwinkling all the treis: 

And ay quhair flouris did ilureis fair, 

Thair suddanlic I saw repair 

Ane suarme of sounding beis. 

Sum sucitlie lies the hony socht, 

Quhill thay war claggit soir; 

Sum willinglie the wakx lies wrocht 

To keip it vp in. store; 

So hcipping, for keiping, 

Into thair hyvis thay hyd it: 

prcceislie and viselie, 

for winter thay provydit. 

To pen the pleasur of that park, 

how eucrie blaysum, brench, and bark, 

Aganis the sonc did schync, 

I leave to poyctis to compyle, 

In staitlie vcrs and ornate style: 

It passit my ingyne, 

Bot as I movit me allonc, 

I saw ane rcver Rin 

Out ouer ane craig and Roch of stone, 

Syne liehtit in ane lin: 

With tumbling and Rumbling, 

Among the roclus round, 

De vailing and falling 

Into the pitt profound. 

To heir the stertlie strcameis eleir, 
Me thocht it mwsick to the eir, 
Quhair daskenc did abound, 
With trubill sueit, & tennour lust; 
And ay the echo reparcust 
hir diapassoun sound, 
Set with the ci soil fa uthe clewc, 
Thairby to know the note, 
Sounding ane michtic senabrewe 
Out of the elphis thrott: 
Discreittlie, mair sueitlie, 
Nor craftle ampliioim; 
Or mwssis that vsis 
That foimtoun eloquon. 

Quha wuld huwc lyrit to heir that tune, 

The birdw eorrohrul ay abom\ 

Throw sehuiding of the, larkis? 

sum Hew so heiehe into the sky is, 

Quhill eupid walknil \vith thr eryis 

Of naturall ehappell elerkts; 

Quha leaving all the heaviuis ahom\ 

allcichlit on the yeird, 

Lo, heir that littill |;od of luif* 

Beloir nu: thuir appetrd; 

So myltllykc and chiUIlykt*, 

With bow thivis quarteris skatit; 

So moylte so coylie, 

he luikit Ivk am* want, 


Auc cleirlic crisp hanst owtn 1 his eis, 

his quaver lie his nakkit ihcis 

hang hi aue, siluer raiss: 

Of gold hetuix hi schoulderi:; ^ri'\v 

Tua prcttic \vin^is <|uhair\vtth lu 

On Ins left anne aiu^ hnuv. 

That; j^otl of all his jjjdr he seho\ 

And layit; it on the ground: 

1 ran ul hinsie for to luik 

(Juhair fairlew aiielit be ftiud: 

1 malsit, 1 |^aisit\ 

To sc that #cir HO ^uy: 

Pcrsaving iny having, 

he cornptit me his pray. 

cc Quluit wald thou gif me iVerul/ 1 tptod lu% 

<c To hauc thir prettie \v insist to (Ho, 

To sport the for ane tpihyle? 

Or quhut, gif 1 Htild lend the heir 

my bow and all my selmting geir, 

Sum boclic to bc^yle?** 

u That jp;cir," (juod I, ** cm noeht be but-lit, 

Yitwald I haue it fane/' 

" Qnluit gUV* quod he, u it cost the 

Bot ruuder it agane?" 

His \vingis than he bringw than, 

And band tluune on my bak: 

" Go, flic now," quod lie now, 

And so my Icif I tuk. 


I sprang vpoun cwpidois wingis, 

the bow and quaver bayth rcsingis, 

To lene me for ane day. 

As Icarus with borrowit llyeht, 

I muntit heichar nor 1 mycht, 

Ourc perrcllus ane play. 

Than furth I drew that dcidlic dairt, 

that sumtyme hurt his mother; 

quhairwith i hurt my wantcmn hairt, 

In hoip to hurt ane vthcr. 

I hurt me and bruit me, 

the ofter I it hantcil; 

Sum se now, In me now, 

the buttcrfle and candill. 

As scho delyttyth in the low. 

So was 1 browdin of my bow, 

As Ignorant as seho: 

And as scho flcis quhill seho be fyrit, 

So, with the dairt that I dcsyrit, 

My handis hes hurt me to. 

As fulyche factoun, by suit, 

His fathcris cairt obtenit, 

I langit in cupiddis bow to schuit, 

bot wist nocht quhat it mcnit. 

Mair wilfull nor skylfull, 

to flie I was so fund, 

desyring, Inspyring, 

And sa was sene appond. 

To lait I leirnit, quha hcwis he, 

the spaill sail fall into his ey: 

To lait 1 went to scuillis: 

To lait I hard the suallow preich, 

To lait experience dois teich 

The scuilmaister of fuillis: 

To lait I find the nest I scik, 

quhan as the birclis ar flownc: 

To lait the stable duir I stcik, 

quhan as the steid is stowin . 

To lait ay thair stait ay 

All fulych folk espy: 

behind so, thai find s'o, 

rcmeid, and so do I. (Lines ^ 




(? 1553 I(K)O) 

RICHARD HQOICKR was born at 
Heavitrce, near Exeter, in or about 
1553. lie was educated at K \Tter 
Grammar School, and at Corpus 
Christ! College, Oxford, where he 
graduated 1JA, in 1574 and MA 
in 1577, obtaining a fellowship m 
the latter year. He was a keen 
student, and his acquaintance with 
Greek and Hebrew was very^vide, 
and for a time he deputised for the 
professor of Hebrew, About 1581 
he took holy orders, and preached 
at St. Paul's* Cross in London. His 
London landlady, Mrs. Church- 
man, suggested to him Uiat Jie 
needed someone to look after him, 
and, being empowered to choose 
him a wife, not unnaturally selected 
her own daughter Joan, whom ho 
at once married. u (> hell! to 
choose love by smother's eyes," 
said Hermm; awl Hooker soon 
found the truth of the saying. 1 1 is 
wife appears to have been some- 
thing of a shrew, though it; is pos- 
sible that her bad qualities have 
been exaggerated by Walton and 
others because her sympathies were 
with the Puritans. She certainly 
appears to have mishandled 1 looker's 
papers after his death; but when 
she summoned her husband from 
gossiping with bis friends to rock 
the cradle, she was surely not guilty 
of any unusual action or heinous 
offence. Hooker* who of course 
vacated his fellowship on his mar- 
riage, at first held the living of 
Drayton Beauchatnp, in Bucking- 
hamshire, but his friends, in order 
to free him from a life of sheep- 
tending and cradle-rocking, pro- 

cured his appointment as Master 
of the Temple in s^>- Hooker 
preached at the Temple on Sunday 

mornings; the afternoon lecturer 
\vasono \ValterTra\ers, an eminent 
Puritan, uho hail been an unsuc- 
cessful candidate for the mastership. 
A sharp though courteous contro- 
versy arose between Hooker and 
Travers* ami inspired the former 
to write his nreat \vuik on ec- 
clesiastical polity. Any contro- 
versy, however, no nutter how 
politely conducted, was repugnant 
to Hooker's identic and sensitive 
nature, and in 150,1 he, requested 
the Archbishop of Canterbury to 
jtfive him a country heuelice " where 
I tuny study, and pi ay for ( Jod's 
hhssjiu*; on" my endeavours, and 
keep myself in 'peace and pnvaey, 
and behold (*od*s blessings- spring 
out of my mother eatih, and eat 
my own bread utthont opposi- 
tions". He \vas accordingly pre- 
sented to the rectory of Hoseombe, 
Wiltshire, antl waV instituted to a 
minor prehaul of Salisbury. ( In 
5<)5 he received the hcttcr living 
of Hishopshwiwe, near Canterbury, 
where he laboured continually at 
his tfreat book until his death on 
2nd November, toco. 

Of tlw ItdiM <{f Ihrhwtwtlt'titl 
Politic has a curious ami rather 
uncertain literary history,. The 
first four hooks were ptiblinhcd In 
or a little before 1594. The fifth 
appeared in *$ ( )7" 'The kth and 
eighth books appeared fit'Ht in t(>4H, 
while the seventh did not appear 
until 1662* There is Mome dwihl 
about the authenticity of the post- 



humously published books; but 
the consensus of opinion is that 
the seventh and eighth books 
arc substantially Hooker's, being 
worked up from his rough notes; 
but that the so-called sixth book, 
though also substantially Hooker's, 
is part of another work, and has 
no right to a place in the Ecclesias- 
Ucall Politic, The matter is not 
quite clear, and the nature of the 
book encouraged pious frauds 
among religious and political en- 
thusiasts. Hooker's book is a master- 
piece both in thought and style. 
In the first two books he expounds 
philosophical principles and in the 
later books he applies them to the 
question in hand, so that in ways 
the first two books are the most 
generally interesting. But Hooker 
had great gifts; what might seem 
to be merely of temporary interest 
becomes of permanent interest in 
his hands; what is mortal has put 
on immortality. In his broad, 
tolerant, and sympathetic spirit, in 
his calmness, his dignity, and his 
freedom from rancour, Hooker 
stands almost alone among theo- 

logical controversialists. No one, 
no matter what his religious or 
political views may be, can rise 
from a perusal of Hooker without 
a greatly increased respect for the 
Church of England, not only of 
1600, but of to-day. His book is 
typical of England and English 
ways of thought, equally far 
removed from Rome and from 
Geneva, His style is as judicious 
as his subject-matter, and keeps 
carefully to the via media between 
stiffness and familiarity, between 
pedantry and colloquialism, be- 
tween preciosity and vulgarity. 
Hooker himself was a holy and 
humble man of heart; a profound 
scholar and a wise man too. His 
book, like many books, has had a 
somewhat curious fate. It was 
written to support a mildly Big- 
Endian policy, but is now used by 
Little-Endians when attacking the 
Big-Endian extremists. 

[Ixaak Walton, Life of Hooker, 
J. Keble, Of tfw Laws of Ecclesias- 
tical Polity (revised by R. W. 
Church and F. Paget); W. 
Hook, Ecclesiastical Biography.] 

Of the Lawes of Ecclesiastical! Politic 


He that goeth about to persuade a multitude, that they are not so 
well governed as they ought to be, shall never want attentive and favourable 
hearers; because they know the manifold defects whcrcunto every kind 
of regiment is subject, but the secret lets and difficulties, which in public 
proceedings are innumerable and inevitable, they have not ordinarily 
the judgment to consider. And because such as openly reprove supposed 
disorders of state are taken for principal friends to the common benefit 
of all, and for men that carry singular freedom of mind; under this fair 
and plausible colour whatsoever they utter passeth for good and current, 
That which wanteth in the weight of their speech, is supplied by the 
aptness of men's minds to accept and believe it. Whereas on the other 


side, if we maintain things that arc established > \\c have not only to 
strive with a number of heavy prejudices deeply rooted in tin* hearts of 
men, who think that herein we serve the time, and speak in favour of 
the present state, because thereby \ve either hold or seek preferment; 
but also to hear such exceptions as minds so averted beforehand usually 
take against that which they are loath should be poured into them. 

Albeit therefore much that we are to speak in this present cause may 
seem to a number perhaps tedious, perhaps obscure, dark, and intricate; 
(for many talk of the (ruth, which never sounded the depth from whence 
itspringeth; and therefore when they arc led thereunto they aresoon weary, 
as men drawn from those healen paths wherewith they have been inured*); 
yet this may not so far prevail as to cut off that \\hieli the matter itself 
requircth, howsoever the nice humour of some be* therewith pleased 
or no. They unto whom we shall seem tedious arc in no wist* injured 

/ *.* 

by us, because it is in their own hands to spare that labour which they 
are not willing to endure. And if any complain of obscurity, they must 
consider, that in these matters It eometh no otherwise to pass than in 
sundry the works both of art: and also of nature, where that which hath 
greatest force in the very things we sec is notwithstanding itself often- 
times not seen, The stateliness of houses, the goodtiness of trees, when 
we behold them delightcth the eye; but that foundation \\lurh beareth 
up the 0111% that root: which nunistcrcth unto the other nourishment am! 
life, is in the bosom of the earth concealed; and if there be at any time 
occasion to search into it, such labour is then more necessary than pleasant, 
both to them winch undertake it and for the lookers-on. In like manner, 
the use and benefit of good laws all that live under them may enjoy with 
delight and comfort, albeit the grounds ami tirst original eanses from 
whence they have sprung be unknown, as to the greatest part of men 
they are, But when they who withdraw their obedience pretend that 
the laws which they should obey arc corrupt and vicious; for better 
examination of their quality, it bchoveth the very foundation and root, 
the highest well-spring and fountain of them to he discovered. Which 
because we are not oftentimes accustomed to do, when we do it the pains 
we take are more needful a great; deal than acceptable, and the mutters 
which we handle seem by reason of nevwm (till the mind j;ro\v better 
acquainted with them) dark, intricate, and unfamiliar, For as much 
help whereof as may be in thin case, 1 have endeavoured throughout 
the body of this whole discourse, that every former pail might 'tfive 
strength unto all that follow, and every later' bring ome li^ht unto all 
before. So that if the judgments of "men do Inn hold themselves in 
suspense as touching these first more general meditations, till in order 
they have perused the rest that ensue; what may seem dark at the first 
will afterwards be found more plain, even as the later particular decisions 
will appear I doubt not more strong, when the other have been read before, 


The Laws of the Church, whereby for so many ages together we 
have been guided in the exercise of Christian religion and the service 
of the true God, our rites, customs, and orders of ecclesiastical govern- 
ment, are called in question: we are accused as men that will not have 
Christ Jesus to rule over them, but have wilfully cast his statutes behind 
their backs, hating to be reformed and made subject unto the sceptre 
of his discipline. Behold therefore we oiler the laws whereby we live 
unto the general trial and judgment of the whole world; heartily be- 
seeching Almighty God, whom we desire to serve according to his own 
will, that both we and others (all kind of partial a (lection being clean laid 
aside) may have eyes to see and hearts to embrace the things that in his 
sight are most acceptable. 

And because the point about which we strive is the quality of out- 
laws, our first entrance hereinto cannot better be made, than with con- 
sideration of the nature of law in general, and of that law which giveth 
life unto all the rest, which are commendable, just, and good; namely 
the law whereby the Eternal himself doth work. Proceeding from hence 
to the law, first of Nature, then of Scripture, we shall have the easier 
access unto those things which come after to be debated, concerning 
the particular cause and question which we have in hand, 


All things that are, have some operation not violent or casual. Neither 
doth any thing ever begin to exercise the same, without some fore- 
conceived end for which it worketh. And the end which it workcth for 
is not obtained, unless the work be also lit to obtain it by. For unto 
every end every operation will not serve. That which doth assign unto 
each thing the kind, that which doth moderate the force and power, 
that which doth appoint the form and measure, of working, the same 
we term a Law. So that no certain eacl could ever be attained, unless 
the actions whereby it is attained were regular; that is to say, made 
suitable, fit and correspondent unto their end, by some canon, rule or 
law. Which thing doth first take place in the works even of God himself. 

All things therefore do work after a sort according to law: all other 
things according to a law, whereof some superior, unto whom they arc 
subject, is author; only the works and operations of God have Him 
both for their worker, and for the law whereby they are wrought. The 
being of God is a kind of law to his working: for that perfection which 
God is, giveth perfection to that he doth. Those natural, necessary, 
and internal operations of God, the Generation of the Son, the Proceeding 
of the Spirit, are without the compass of my present intent: which is 
to touch only such operations as have their beginning and being by a 
voluntary purpose, wherewith God hath eternally decreed when and 


how they should he. Which etenul decree ij that uc term an eternal 

.Dangerous it; were tor the feeble hrain nf uuu to \\,ul r f ar j u { |j u , 
doings of the Most High; \vhom although f<> know br liu\ aud joy to 
make mention of his name; yet our soundest kum\led{e i,-j to know "that 
we know him not as indeed he is, neither nut know him: and our .safest 
eloquence concerning him is our silence, wltni \ve confess \\ithnut con- 
fession that his glory is inexplicable^ ht:i ^re.tfuens above our capacity 
and reach, lie is above, and ue upon earth; therefore it hehovcth our 
words to be wary and few, 

Our God is one, or rather \ery Oneness, and men* unity, having 
nothing but itself in itself, and not consisting (a:; all things do besides 
God) of many things, In which essential I ! nity of < md a Trinity personal 
nevertheless subsisteth, after a manner far e\verdi'i** the possibility 
of man's conceit 1 . The works which outwardly are nt <;<nl, they are of 
such sort of Him being one, thul each Person hath in them somewhat 
peculiar and proper. For being Three, and they all subsisting ' m i| lc 
essence of one Deity; from the Fat her, b\ the- Son. iluoui*h tho Spirit, 
all things are. That which the Sim doth hear of the Father, and which 
the Spirit doth receive of the Father and the Sou, the same \vr have at 
the hands of this Spirit as heiuj* ihe last, and thereloic the nearest unto 
us in order, although in power the same with the second ami the HrsL 

The wise atul learned among the very hc.uhmn themselves have all 
acknowledged some First Cause, whereupon orij>juail> the heing of all 
things dependeth. Neither have they otherwise spoken of that eanse 
than as an Agent, which knowing what ami why it worteth, nlnu-rvdh 
in working a most exact order or law, Thus much w {minified by 
that which Homer meutioucth, AM* <V /nA-oWo //m-A,;. Tims much 
acknowledged by Mcrcuriim TrisiwgistuM, T.V / ( .; T K.Iir/i..r ;/,> r 
6 fy/uoiyjylX' oi'i xt/nro' /A,Xrt Xo)'^, Thun much coideut by Anavagonw 
and Plato, terming the Maker of the world an intrfltrtunt \\o\ier. Finally 
the Stoics, although imagining the linn eauwc of all thinp* to be lire 
held nevertheless, that the name lire having art, did ,V, v i fl^.n* ; ff j 
7vio- K<5rr/*oi. They all confeHH therefore in the working of that lirnt 
cause, that Counsel IB used, Reason followed, a Way ob^erxtnl; that in 
to say, constant order and Law is kept; whereof itself smut ueedn be 
author unto itself, Otherwise it nhouhl have some uorthier and higher 
to direct it, and so could not itself be the first. Beiui* the liwi, it Van 
have no other than itself to he the author of that law vUtich it uillmdy 
worketh by, h 7 

God therefore is a law both lo himneli; and to all other tiling benidei, 
lo^himself ho is a law in all those things, whereof our Saviour sneaketh, 
saying My hither worketh as vet, *> I ". (Jml vvorkcth nothing 
without cause. Alt those things which arc done by him huve Home eml 


for which they arc done; and the end for which they are done is a 
reason of his will to do them. Ills will had not inclined to create woman, 
but that he saw it conld not be well if she were not created, Nou cat 
homini) " It is not good man should be alone; therefore let us make a 
helper for him," That: and nothing else is done by God, which, to leave 
undone were not so good. 

If therefore it be demanded, why God having power and ability 
infinite, the effects notwithstanding of that power are all so limited as 
we see they are: the reason hereof is the end which he hath proposed, 
and the law whereby his wisdom hath stinted the effects of his power 
in such sort, that it doth not work infinitely but correspond cully unto that 
end for which it worketh, even " all things x/ ) ^ frT( ^ > -> i 11 niost decent and 
comely sort ", all things in Measure, Number, and Weight. 

The general end of Cod's external working is the exercise of his 
most glorious and most abundant virtue. Which abundance doth show 
itself in variety, and for that cause this variety is oftentimes in Scripture 
exprest by the name of riches. " The Lord hath made all things for his 
own sake." Not that any thing is made to be beneficial unto him, but 
all things for him to show beneficence and grace in them. 

The particular drift of every act proceeding externally from God 
we are not able to discern, and therefore cannot always give the proper 
and certain reason of his works. Howbcit undoubtedly a proper and 
certain reason there is of every finite work of God, inasmuch as there 
is a law imposed upon it; which if there were not, it should be infinite, 
even as the worker himself is. 

They err therefore who think that of the will of God to do this or 
that there is no reason besides his will Many times no reason known 
to us; but that there is no reason thereof I judge it most unreasonable 
to imagine, inasmuch as he worketh all things Kara rt/v /Jo-uA/iJv TO{? 
0eX*;/Aaros s aiVoP, not only according to his own will, but " the Counsel 
of his own will ". And whatsoever is done with counsel or wise resolution 
hath of necessity some reason why it should be done, albeit that reason 
be to us in some things so secret, that it forceth the wit of man to stand, 
as the blessed Apostle himself cloth, amazed thereat: " O the depth 
of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! how un- 
searchable are his judgments," etc. That law eternal which Gotl himself 
hath made to himself, and thereby worketh all things whereof he is the 
cause and author; that law in the admirable frame whereof shineth with 
most perfect beauty the countenance of that wisdom which hath testified 
concerning herself, " The Lord possessed me in the beginning of his 
way, even before his works of old I was set up "; that law, which hath 
been the pattern to make, and is the card to guide the world by; that 
law which hath been of God and with God everlastingly; that law, the 
author and observer whereof is one only God to be blessed for ever: 



how should cither men or angels he able perfectly to behold? The | >00 j. 
of this law we are neither able nor worthy to open and look into. That 
little thereof which we darkly apprehend we admire, the rest with 
religious ignorance we humbly and meekly adore. 

Seeing therefore that according to this law He worketh, " of whom 
through whom, and for whom, are all things "; although there seem 
unto us confusion and disorder in, the affairs of this present world; 
" Tamen quoniam bonus mundum reel or temporal, recto iicri cuncta 
ne dubitcs ": u Let no man doubt but that every tiling is well done 
because the world is ruled by so jj;ood a, jjuide ", as transtTcs,scth not 
His own law: than which nothing can be more absolute, perfect, and just, 
The law whereby He worketb is eternal, ami therefore can have 
no show or colour of mutability: for which cause, a part of thai J IUV 
being opened in the promises which God hath made (because his 
promises are nothing else but declarations what (foil will do for the 
good of men) touching those promises the Apostle bath witnessed, that 
Gotl may as possibly u deny himself " and not be Ciod, as fail to perform 
them. And concerning the counsel of (Jod, he tenncth it likewise a 
thing "unchangeable"; the counsel of God, ami that law of ( Joel 
whereof now we speak, being one, 

Nor is the freedom of the will of < iott any whit abated, let, or hindered 
by means of this; because the imposition of this law upon himself is 
his own free and voluntary act. 

This law therefore we may name eternal, being ** that order which 
God before all ages hath set down with himself, 'lor himself to do ; 
things by ". 

( 1562 1613 ) 

HENRY CONSTABLE was the son of 
Sir Robert Constable of Newark, 
and was born in 1562, He was 
educated at St. John's College, 
Cambridge, where he graduated 
B.A. in 1580. He became an ardent 
Roman Catholic while still a young 
man, and appears to have been 
engaged in secret service, a dan- 
gerous occupation in Elizabethan 
times, and doubly so for one of his 
religion, He resided in Paris for 
some time, and in 1598 visited 

with a commission from 
the Pope empowering him to pro- 
mise James the support of the 
Catholic nations in bis claim to 
succeed Elizabeth, if Jutwrs would 
promise to ameliorate the lot; of 
Catholics in Kni'Jand after his 
accession. Constable did not see 
James, ami his mission was a 
failure. When Jaincn did come to 
the throne. Constable returned to 
England, but: wan imprisoned in 
the Tower for a few months. He 



was released before December, 
1604. Nothing more is known of 
his lite except that he died at: 
Liege on ()th October, 1613. 

Constable's sonnet - sequence 
"Diana first appeared in 1502, This 
edition contained only 23 sonnets; 
the second edition (1504) was 
entitled Diana^ or the excellent con- 
ceit/id Sonnets of I/. (L augmented 
wilh divers Oiuitorwiitis of honorable 

Aw 1 ** 

and krncd personages^ and contained 
76 sonnets, many ot" which, how- 
ever, are by other pens. ICight are 
Sir Philip Sidney's; and none of 
the additional poems can be as- 
cribed with absolute certainty to 


Constable. His spiritual sonnets 

were not printed until 1815. lie 
contributed four charming poems 
to England's Helicon (1600). Jlis 
work is almost too scanty to give a 
satisfactory display of his genius; 
though some of his poems are 
fantastic and full of conceits, he is 
always correct and elegant, often 
tuneful and captivating. He is, 
like many contemporary sonneteers, 
greatly indebted to French and 
Italian models, especially Desportes 
and Petrarch. 

[Sir Sidney Lee, Elizabethan 
Nonncts] editions of Constable by 
W, C, Ha/lilt (1859) and John 
5ray (1897),] 

Of his inistrisse: upon occasion of her 

walking in a Garden, 

My lathers presence makes the roses red, 
Because to see her lips they blush for shame: 
The lilies leaves, for envy, pale became, 
And her while bands in them this envy bred. 
The marigold abroad the leaves doth spread, 
Because the sun's and her power is the same; 
The violet of purple colour came, 
Dy'd with the blood she made my heart to shed. 
In briefe all flowers from her their virtue take: 
I'Yom her sweet breath their sweet smells do proceed, 
The living heate which her eye-bcames do make 
VVarmeth the ground, and quickeneth the scedc. 
The raine wherewith she watereth these flowers 
Kails from mine eyes, which she dissolves in showers. 

To the Ladie Rich 

Heralds at; armes doe three perfections quote; 
To wit most faire, most rich, most glittering: 
So when these three coneurrc within one thing, 
Needs must that thing of honour be, of note, 
Lately did I behold a rich faire coatc 

Vok II 



Which wished fortune to mine eyes did 1mm*; 
A lordly coatc but: worthy of a kintf: 
Wherein all these perfect ions one mij'ht note 
A iicld of lilies, roses proper bare, 
To stars in chieie, the erest was waver, of ^old: 
How glittering' was the eoutc the starrs declare, 
The lilies nuule it faire for to behold; 
And rich it was, as by the ^old appears, 
So happy he which in bis armes it beares. 

Damelus Song lo Im Diafilwnia 

Diapheniii like the I)uiT;uIown-dilIu\ 

White us the sunne, faire as the lillie, 

Heigh hoe, how I doo love thee! 

I doo love thce as my la tubs 

Are beloved of their Dams, 

"How blest were I if ihoti would \st proove me! 

Diaphenia like the spreading Hoses, 

That in thy sweet es all sweetes liu'loues, 

Faire swceto, how 1 doo love thee! 

[ doo love thee as each (lower 

Loves the sunnc's life-^ivin^ power; 

For dead, thy breath to life mitflit moove me, 

Dhphcuia like to all things blessed, 

When all thy praises are expressed, 
Dcarc Joy, bow I doo love thee! 
As the Bird doo love tlie spring 
Or the Bees their carefull King; 
r riicn in requite, sweet Virgin, love me, 


(d 1607 ) 

EDWARD DYER was born at date of his birth in unknown, and 

rpham Park, Somersetshire, not much in known of Ins life. He 

ch was destined, one hundred was educated at Oxford, but his 

:s after his death, to be the college is not known with any cer- 

tiplace of Henry Fielding. The tainty, and he tlitl not graduate. 



He appears to have gone to court; 
under the wing of Leicester, ami 
was u favourite, though w>t a prime 
favourite, of the queen, lie was 
an intimate friend of Sir Philip 
Sidney's, was a pull-bearer at his 
funeral, and was bequeathed half 
his books. lie was out of favour at 
court for some time, but was sent 
on diplomatic missions to the Low 
Countries and Denmark, and in 
1596 was appointed Chancellor 
of the Order of the (Jarter and 
knighted, He is said, not on the 
best of evidence, to have been a 
great waster of money and ;u * '*d- 
chemist, The latter accusation, if 
true, explains the former. I le died 
in 1607, 
Dyer had a great reputation as a 

poet in his day, and was mentioned 
by Meres as " famous for elegy ", 
llis poems were never collected, 
and many now arc lost, so that we 
arc constrained to say of him what 
Dnmunoml of Ihiwthornden said, 
that his works " are so few that 
have come to my hands, 1 cannot 
well say anything of them, ". He 
resembles u single-speech Hamil- 
ton ", for his reputation is sus- 
tained almost entirely by one 
poem, My Alyndv to me a Kingdome 
in. This is a famous and an excellent 
poem, though perhaps the later 
stair/as do not quite come tip to 
the standard of the opening lines, 
A, B, ( J rosart edited Dyer's writings 
in 'Miscellanies of the Fuller Wor- 
thier Library, 

My Myncie to me a Kingdome is 

My mynclc to me a kyngdomc is; 

Such preasente joyes therein I fyndc, 

That it exeells all other blisse 

That earth altorcls or growes by kyndc: 

Thoughe inueho I wante which moste would have 

Yet still my mymle forblddes to crave, 

No princely pompe, no wealthy store, 

No force to winne the victoryc, 

No wilyo wit to salve a aore, 

No shape to feedc a lovingc eye; 

To none of these I yicldc as thrall: 

For why? My myndo doth serve for all, 

I sec how plenty suffers ofte, 
And hasty elymcrs sone do full; 
I sec that those which are alofte, 
Mishapp doth threaten moste of all; 
They get with toylc, they kccpc with feare 
Sxiche cares my myndc could never bearc. 


Content I live, this is my staye, 
I sccke no more than, in aye suil'yse; 
I pressc to beare HO haughty swayc; 
Look what I lack, my inyiulc supplies: 
Lo, thus I triumph like a kyiu>v, 
Content with that my myiule doth hrin^c. 

Home have too nmehc, yet still do crave; 

1 little have, ami seek no more. 

They are hut poore though muehe they have, 

And I am ryehe with lyltlc store; 

They poore, [ryehe; they bej^e, I ' jtyvc; 

They lueke, I leave; they pyne, 1 lyve, 

I laughe not; at another's losse, 
I grudge not at another V gaync; 
No wordly wanes my mynde can toss; 
My state at: one dothe still rc.mayne; 
[ fcarc no foe, I fawn no IViemle; 
I loathe not lyfo nor dread my ende, 

Some weighc their pleasure by theyre luste, 
They re wisdom by theyre rage of \vyll; 
Theyre treasure is theyre onlye truste, 
A clokcd erafte theyre store of skylle, 
But all the pleasure that I iymle 
Is to mayntayne a cjuiet 1 mynde, 

My wcalthe is hcalthe ami perfect ease; 
My consctcnee eleere my choice defence:. 
I neither secke by brybea to please^ 
Nor by deeeyte to breecle ollenee; 
Thus do I lyve, thus will I" dye; 
Would all did so \vell as I. 





ROBERT SOUTIHVWJ, was horn at 
llorshani St. Faith's, Norfolk, 
about 1561. lie was educated at 
Douai and Paris, and at an early 
age was fired with the ambition to 
become a Jesuit. He attained his 
desire in 1578, and spent the two 
years of his novitiate at Tournai, 
lie became prefect of studies in the 
English College at; Rome, and was 
ordained priest in 1584. In 1586 
he went; to England, although two 
years before a law had been enacted 
by which any native-born subject 
of the queen who had been ordained 
a Roman Catholic, priest since the 
first year of her accession was 
guilty of treason if he resided in 
England more than forty days, and 
was subject to the death-penalty, 
with the barbarous ceremonies re- 
served for traitors. Brutal as this 
law may at first; sight appear to be, 
it was merely Elizabeth's not un- 
natural rejoinder to the Pope, who 
had excommunicated her, and whose 
emissaries were stirrers-up of con- 
spiracy and rebellion, and virtually 
self-created outlaws, Southwell, 
not being content; with being a 
Jesuit, desired to he ix martyr, and 
after a secret ministry of six years, 
during which he assumed the name 
of Cotton, and feigned an interest 

in lield-sports to disguise his sacer- 
dotal character, his ambition was 
attained at; Tyburn on 2ist Feb- 
ruary, 1595, At various times 
during his previous two and a half 
years' imprisonment he was tor- 
tured, but with resolute firmness 
refused to give any information on 
any subject whatever. 

Southwell's spectacular death has 
given to his poems an interest 
which they would not. otherwise 
possess, especially, as is natural, 
among his co-religionists. Much, 
indeed, of Southwell's religious 
verse can only be appreciated by 
Roman Catholics. His longest 
poem is 8t. Peter's Complaint, 
nearly 800 lines long; his most 
famous 77/tf Jhtrning Babe, which 
(cmsou praised, He endeavoured 
and a laudable endeavour it was- 
to write sacred poetry which could 
vie with contemporary profane 
poetry. His poems are full of con- 
ceits, antitheses, and paradoxes, 
but have often rhetorical and 
sometimes poetical merit. His 
devotional prose is not widely 


[A. B. Grosart, The Complete 
Poems of Robert Southwell, S.y.; 
Ohristobel M. Hood, The Book of 
Robert Southwell} 

Tlie Burning Babe 

As I in hoary Winter's night stood shivcringe in the snowe, 
Surprised 1 was with sodaync heat, which made my hart to glowe; 
And liftingc upp a fcarefull eye to vewe what fire was nere, 
A prcty Babe all burninge bright, did in the ayre appeare. 


Who scorched with excessive heate, such floodes of teares did shedtl, 

As though His lloodes should quench Ilia flames which \vitli His t cures 

were fcckl; 

Alas! quoth He, but ne\vly borne, in fiery heates I frye, 
Yet none approch to \vurmc their hartes or fcele my (ire bul 1 ! 
My faultles brcst the fornaee is, the fuell woundin^e thornes, 
Love is the fire, and sighes the smoke, the ashes shame and scomes; 
The fuell Justice hiycth on, and Mercy hlowes the eoales, 
The mettall in this fomaeo wrought are men's defiled soules, 
For which, as nowc on lire I am, to worke them to their j;ooO, 
So will I melt into a bath to washe them in IVIy bloodc: 
With this lie vanish t out of si^ht, and swiftly shroncke awaye, 
And straight I called unto mymlc thai: it was Christmas-clave. 

New Prince , New Poinpc 

Behonld a sely tender Babe, 

In freesing winter nibble, 
In homely number trembling lie:;; 

Alas, a pitious sis^hte! 

The inns arc full, no man will ycldc 

This little pilgrime bedd; 
But fore'd lie is with sely beastes 

In cribb to shroude I Us hcadd, 

Despise not Htm for lyinge there, 

I'irst what He is enquire*; 
An orient pcrlc is often founde 

In depth of dirty mire, 

Waye not His cribb, His wotlden dishe, 

Nor beastes that by Him fecde; 
Way not His mother's poorc attire, 
Nor Josephe's simple weede, 

This stable is a Prince * eourte, 

The cribb His chairc of State; 
The beastes are purcell uf His pompe, 

The woddcn dishc His plate, 

The persons in that poorc attire 
His royall liveries weurc ; 



The Prince Himself us come from heaven, 
This pompe is prised there, 

With joy approeh, O Christian wightel 

Do homage to thy Kiugc; 
And highly prise His humble pompe 

Which He from heaven dolh bringe, 


1562 - 1619 

SAMUKL DANIHI, was the son of n 
music-muster, and was born near 
Taunton in 1562. He was educated 
at Magdalen ,11 id I (now Hertford 
College), Oxford, but did not take 
a degree. He visited Italy, prob- 
ably 'before 1590, \vhen he became 
tutor to William Herbert, after- 
wards Karl of Pembroke and 
Shakespeare's patron. He became, 
as was natural, a firm friend, 
of u Sidney's sister, Pembroke's 
mother ". hi 1591 twenty-seven of 
his sonnets were printed without 
permission in Naah's edition of 
Sidney's A$trof>lie! and Stella, 
Daniel was annoyed at this liberty, 
especially as his sonnets were dis- 
figured by typographical mistakes, 
and he was a man who always de- 
sired that his work should appear 
without; spot or blemish. ^ Accord- 
ingly in 1592 he published his 
collection of 'sonnets* Delia, which 
originally contained fifty poems, 
but which was augmented in later 
editions, in which The Comptaynt 
of Rosamond was also inserted. 
Daniel's sonnets were well liked, 
and are for the most part good; 
but, like many Elizabethan sonnets, 
they owe a heavy debt to conti- 
nental sonneteers. His Seoecan 
tragedy Cleopatra appeared also in 

later editions of Delta. It was a 
companion piece to Lady Pem- 
broke's Attionie, In 1595 he pub- 
lished the first instalment of his 
largest work 7'V/\v/ Fowre Kookcs 
of llw Chile Warm between ///<? two 
Houses of Lancaster and Yorkc. 
A, fifth, book appeared in the same 
year, the sixth in 1601, and the 
seventh and eighth books in 1609, 
Jonsoa complained about this poem, 
" Daniel wrott Civil Warres, and 
yell hath not one batlc in all his 
Book ". It; is a somewhat prosaic 
poem, with occasional good pas- 
sages, and a very competent style 
of workmanship throughout. About 
1598 Daniel became tutor to the 
young daughter of the Countess of 
Cumberland; he liked his pupil, 
but not his work. In 1599 he pub- 
lished Mtisophilus or a General 
Defence of Learning His poems 
were all popular, and most of them 
ran into several editions. In 1602 
he wrote his excellent pamphlet 
A Defence of Ryme, in which 
he successfully opposed Campion's 
attack on rhyme. When James 
came to the throne Daniel sent him 
a Panegyricke GoiigratulatQrw> and 
consequently soon acquired a com- 
fortable position at court. He was 
appointed inspector of the children 

of the queen s revels, and Had now 
to organise and \vrite entertain- 
ments. His tragedy of Wrih>t<is t 
based on Plutarch's Life of < lA'.v- 
ander, almost got him into serious 
trouble, and was not, a success. 1 1 is 
prose History of England is well 
written but is not a scholarly piece 
of work, His court entertainments 
include The Vision of I he Twelve 
Goddesses , The Oiteem \v Arcadia t 

' *%i ' 

Tethys Festival (written to celebrate 
Prince Henry's creation as Knight 
of the Bath), and Hymens Triumph. 
All these pieces contain good writ- 
ing, but Daniel was by nature too 
serious to succeed in such trifles, 
In 1607 he was appointed one of 
the grooms of the queen's privy 
chamber, and was henceforward 
in a position of afllucnce, though 
he did not feel quite at home 
in his work. In his old age he 
turned agriculturalist, and rented 
a farm in Wiltshire, where he 

Few of the greater Elizabethans 
arc less appreciated than Daniel, 
in spite of the cordial praise which 
Coleridge, Lamb, and Ilaxlilt he- 
stowed upon his work, Coleridge 
says^ that his '* stylo and language 
are just such as any very pure and 
manly writer of the present day 
Wordsworth, for example -would 
use; it seems quite modern in com- 
parison with the style of Shake- 
speare ", The later seventeenth 

ana we a^mcentii century, unable 
to stomach the Kli/ahctlians as a 
whole, found Daniel more "cor- 
rect " ami therefore more tolerable 
than most of his contemporaries. 
Ami yet to day many critics niree 
with Jonson that Daniel \vas" a 
t>ood honest man , . . hot no 
poet ". lie was not happy in his 
choice ^ of subjects; his historical 
poem is^ neither j,;ood history nor 
i^ood poetry; his sonnets are imita- 
tive, lus masques perfunctory. In 
some of his epistles and shorter 
poems his shifts are seen to better 
advantage. lie uas an excellent 
critic and, \\hat docs not always 
follow, an admirable self- critic, 
lie revised his work not once hut 
many times, as carefully as did 
Tennyson. He took a lofty view of 
the dignity of the jiiofossion of 
letters without taking an unduly 
exalted view of his own perfor- 
mances therein, HIM ideas on the 
importance ami the future of the 
English lan^ua^e should endear 
him to all who share those views, 
Well does he deserve the epithet 
" \vell-lan t i>uaged ". lie has been 
acclaimed as a " poets* pool '\ hut 
he is so, perhaps , less on account 
of the charm of his \\nrk than on 
account of his absolute devotion to 
the craft of letters, 
I A, II (Jmsart, The I Ms of 
muel l)aniei\ Sir A, T. Quiller- 
Couch, .'Ith't'tttttm In O'///mw| 


Vnto the boundlesse Ocean of thy hcautie, 

Runncs this poorc Riuer, eharg'd with strcames of xealo: 

Returning thce the tribute of sny dutic, 

Which here my lone, my youth, my plaintn reueulc, 


Here 1 vnelaspe the Booke of my eluirgU soule, 

Whore I haue cast, th' accounts of all my care: 

Here haue 1 summW my sighs, here I inrole 

I low they were spent for ihoo; looke what they are: 

Looke on the deerc expenees of my youth, 

And see how iust 1 reckon with thine CMOS: 

Examine well thy beaut ie with my truth, 

And crossc my cares ere greater sunnnes arise. 

Reade it (sweet maide) though it be done but, sleightly; 

Who can shew all his lone, doth lone but lightly. 


Faire is my Lone, and cruell as she's faire; 

Her brow shades frownes, although her eyes are sunny, 

Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despaire; 

And her tlisdames are (Jail, her fiuiours liunny. 

A modest; Maide, deckt: with a blush of honor, 

Whose I co to doc tread greene paths of youth and louc, 

The wonder of all eyes that looke vpon her: 

Sacred on earth, design 'd a Saint abouc, 

Cluistitio and Beautie, which were deadly foes, 

Line reconciled friends within her brow: 

And had she pitty to eonioyue with those, 

Then who had heard the plaints 1 vttcr now? 

For hud she not beene faire and thus vnkinde, 

My Muse had slept, and none had knowne my mimic, 

Song from "Hymen's Triumph" 

Love is a sickness full of woes, 

All remedies refusing; 
A plant; that with most cutting grows, 

Most barren with best using. 

Why so? 

More we enjoy it, more it dies; 
,lf not enjoyed, it sighing cries, 

1 leigh-ho ! 

Love is a torment of the mind, 

A tempest everlasting; 
And Jove hath made it of a kind 

Not well, nor full nor fasting. 

Why so? 


More we on joy it, more it dies; 
If not enjoyed, it; sighing cries, 


To the Ladie Margaret, Countesse 

of Cumberland 

He that of such a height hath built his mimic, 
And rear 'd the dwelling of his thoughts so Hlnmi?;, 
As neither feare nor hope emi shake the frame 
Of his rcsolucd pow'rs, nor all the \vimle 
Of vanitie or maliee pierce to \vrom* 
His setled peace, or to dlsturbe the same; 
What a fairc scute hath he, from whence he may 
The boundlcssc wastes and wilder. of man suruav, 

And with how free an eye doth he looke downe 
Vpon these lower regions of turmoyle! 
Where all the stonues of passions mainly beat 
Oil flesh and hloud; whore honour, powV, rcnowne 
Are oncly guy uttlietions, golden toylc; 
Where greatuesso stands vpon as feeble feet 
As frailty doth, and oncly great, doth sceme 
o little minds, who doe it so estceme. 

He lookcs vpon the mightiest Monarches warren 

But oncly as on stately robberies; 

Where eucrmore the fortune that preuailes 

Must be the right; the ill-sueemliug marrcs 

The fairest and the best-fae't enterprise; 

Groat Pint Poinpey lesser Pirats {[uailes; 

Justice, he sees, as if seduced, still 

Conspires with powV, whose cause must not IKS ill. 

He sees the face of Right t* appcare as manifolde 
As are the passions of vncertuine man; 
Who puts it in all colours, all attires, 
To serue his ends and make his courses holder 
He sees, that let Deceit worke what it can, 
Plot and contriuc base \vayes to high, desires; 
That the all-guiding Prouidcncc doth yet 
All disappoint, and mocks this smoukc of wit, 


Nor is he mou'd with all the thunder-cracks 

Of Tyrants threats, or \vith the surly brow 

Of power, that proudly sits on others crimes, 

Charted with more crying sinnes then those he checks; 

The stonncs of sad confusion, that may grow 

Vp in the present, for the conuning times, 

Appall not him, that hath no side at all 

Bui of hitnselfe, and knowes the worst can fall. 

Although his heart, so ncere allied to earth, 
Cannot but pitty the perplexed State 
Of troublous and distrest mortalitic, 
That: thus make way vnto the ougly birth 
Of their ovvnc sorrowes, and cloe still beget 
AlHiction vpon imbedllitie; 
Yet, seeing thus the course of things must nmne, 
lie lookes thereon, not strange, but; as foredone. 

And whilst distraught Ambition compasses 
And is ineompast; whilst as craft deeeiues 
And is deeeiuecl; whilst man doth ransaeke man, 
And builds on bloud, and rises by distresses 
And lit' inheritance of desolation leaucs 
To great expecting hopes; he lookes thereon 
As from the shore of peace with vuwet eie, 
And beares no venture in impictie. 

Thus, Madam, fares Unit man that hath prepared 

A rest for his desires, and sees all things 
Beneath him, and hath learn M this bookc of man, 

Full of the notes of frailty, and compared 

The best of glory with her sufferings: 

By whom 1 see you labour all you can 

To plant your heart, and set your thoughts as neare 

His glorious mansion as your pow'rs can bcare. 

Which, Madam, are so soundly fashioned 

By that clcerc Judgement that hath carryed you 

Beyond the feeble limits of your kinde, 

As they can stand against the strongest head 

Passion can make; inur'd to any hue 

The world can cast; that cannot cast that minde 

Out of her forme of goodncssc, that doth sec 

Both what the best and worst of earth can be. 



Which makes, that whatsoeuer here bcfalles 
You in the region of your sclfe remaine; 
Where no vainc breath of th* impudent molests. 
That hath sccur'd within the brasen, walles 
Of a clocrc conscience, that without all stuine 
Rises in peace, in innocencie rests; 
Whilst all what malice from without procures, 
Shewcs her owne ougly heart, but hurts not yours. 

And whereas none rcioyee more in reuenge 
Then women vsc to doe; yet you well know. 
That wrong is better eheckt, by being contemn M 
Then being pursu'd: leaning to him t ' aueni',e 
To whom it appertained; wherein you show 
How worthily your cleerencsse bath condemn M 
Base malediction, lining in the darke, 
That at the rates of goodnesse still cloth barke. 

Knowing the heart of man is set to be 
The centre of this world, about the which 
These rcuolutions of disturbances 
Still roule; where all th* aspects of miserie 
Predominate; whose strong effects are such 
As lie must beare, being pow Ylcsse to redressc; 
And that vnlesse aboue himselfe he can 
Erect himselfe, how poore a thing is man ! 

And how turmoyrd they are, that leuell lie 

With earth, and cannot: lift themselues from thence; 

That ncuer are ut peace with their desires, 

But worke beyond their yecrcs, and euen dente 

Dotage her rest, and hardly will dispence 

With death; that when ability expires, 

Desire Hues still: so much delight they liaue 

To carry toyle and trauell to the grime. 

Whose ends you sec, and what can be the best 
They reach vnto, when they haue cast; the summt: 
And reckonings of their glory; and you knmv 
This floting life hath but this Fort of rest, 
A heart prcpar'd, thai/cam no ill to come; 
And that mans greatnesse rests but in his slum ; 
The best of all whose clayes consumed are 
Either in warre, or peaee concerning wurre. 


This concord, Madame, of a, well-tuny minclc 

! Fatlx bccnc so set, by that all-working hand 

Of hcaucn, that though the world hath done his worst 

To put it out, by discords most vnkindc; 

Yet doih it still in perfect vnion stand 

With (Joel and man, nor euer will be fore't 

From that most sweet accord, but still agree 

[{quail in Fortunes inequalitie. 

And this note (Madame) of your worthinesse 
Remaines recorded in so many hearts, 
As time, nor malice cannot: wrong your right 
In th j inheritance of Fame you must; possess e; 
You that hane built you by your great deserts, 
Out of small meanes, a farre more exquisit 
And glorious dwelling for your honoured name 
Then all the gold that leaden minds can, frame. 

From U A Defence of Ryme" 

But; yet now notwithstanding all this which I haue hccre deliuered 
in the defence of Ryme, I am not so farrc in loue with mine owne mysterie, 
or will seeme so froward, as to bee against the reformation, aad the 
better selling these measures of ours. Wherein there be many things, 
I could wish were more certaine and better ordered, though my selfe 
dare not take vpon me to be a teacher therein, hauing so much neede 
to learne of others. And I must eonfesse, that to mine owne care, those 
eontimiall cadences of couplets vsed in long and continued Poemes, 
are very tyresome, and vnpleasing, by reason that still, me thinks, they 
runne on with a sound of one nature, and a kincle of eertaintie which 
stuffs the delight rather then intcrtaincs it. But yet notwithstanding, 
I must not out of mine owne daintincsse, eondemnc this kinde of writing, 
which peraducnturc to another may seeme most delightfull, and many 
worthy compositions we see to hauc passed with commendation in that 
kincle. Besides, me tlunkes sometimes, to beguile the care, with a running 
out, and passing oner the Ryme, as no bound to stay vs in the line where 
the violence of the matter will breake thorow, is rather gracefull then 
otherwise* Wherein I, fine my Homcr-Lucan, as if he gloried to seeme 
to haue no bounds, albeit hoe were confined within liis measures, to 
be in .my conceipt most happy. For so thereby, they who care not for 
Verse or Ryme, may passe it oucr without taking notice thereof, and 
please themselues with a well -measured Prose, And I must eonfesse 


my Aduersary hath wrought this much vpon, me, that I thinkc u 
Tragcdie would indcede best comporte with a. blank Verse, and dispetiee 
with Ryme, sailing in the Chorus or where a sentence shall require a 
couplet. And to auoydc this ouerglutting the care with that alwayes 
certaine, and ful incountcr of Ryme, 1 haue assald in some of my Epistles 
to alter the vsuall place of meeting, ami to sette it further oil" by one 
Verse, to trie how I could disuse my owne eare and to ease it of this 
continuall burthen, which indeecle secmes to surcharge it a, little too 
much, but as yet I cannot come to please my sclfe therein: this alternate 
or crosse Rymc holding still the best place in my affection. 

Besides, to me this change of number in a Poem of one nature (its 
not so wel, as to mixe vneertainly, fern mine Rymes with masculine 
which, euer since I was warned of that dcibnniiie by my kitule friend 
and countriman Maister Hugh Saw/on!^ I luuie alwayes so atioyclcd it, 
as there are not abouc two couplcttes in that; kincle i"n all my Poem of 
the Ciuili wanes: and I would willingly if I eoulcle, haue aftcred it in 
all the rest, holding feminine Rymcs to be fittest for Ditties, and either 
to be set certaine, or else by themsclucs. But in these things, I say, I 
dare not take vpon mce to teach that they ought to be so, in respect my 
selfc holdes them to be so, or that I thinkc it right; for indeede there 
is no right in these things that are continually in a wamlring motion, 
carried with the violence of our vncertaine likings, being but oncly the 
time that giues them their power. For if this right, or truth, should be 
no other thing then that wee make it, we shall shape it; into a thousand 
figures, seeing this excellent painter Man, can so well lay the colours 
which himselfe grindes in his owne affections, as that hec will make them 
serue for any shadow, and any counterfeit. Hut the greatest himlcrer 
to our proceedings, and the reformation of our crrours, is this Sclfe- 
loue, whereunto we Versifiers are euer noted to be especially subject; 
a disease of all other, the most dangerous, and incurable, being once 
seated in the spirits, for which there is no cure, but oncly by a spiritual! 
remedy. Multos puto, ad sapimtiam potuissr pmtrniw, nhf fwf assent sc 
peruemsse; and this opinion of our sulliciencie makes so great a cracke 
m our iudgemcnt, as it wil hardly euer holde any thing of worth, daeeus 
amor mi, and though it would scenic to see all without; it;, yet certainely 
it chscernes but little within, For there is not the simplest writer that 
will euer tell himselfe, he doth ill, but as if he were the parasite oncly 
to sooth his owne doings, perswades him that; his lines can not but please 
others, which so much delight himselfe: 

Suffemts est quisqtw sibL . mqiw idem mqmm 
Aeque est heat us, ac poema cum scnhtt, 
Tarn gaitdek in se iamque sc ipsc mtmtttr, 

And the more to shew that he is so, we shall sec him cuermorc 


in all places, and to all persons repeating his owne compositions: and, 

Oucm two arripnlt, tenet occiditque kgcndo. 

Next to this doforniitie stands our affectation, wherein we alwayes 
bewray our seines to be both vnkimlc, and vnnaturall to our owne natiuc 
language, in disguising or forging strange or vnvsuall wordes, as if it 
were to make our verse seeme an other kind of speaeh out of the course 
of our vsuall practise, displacing our wordes, or inuesting new, oncly 
vpon a singularitie: when our owne accustomed phrase, set: in the due 
place, would expresse vs more familiarly and to better delight, than all 
this idle affectation of antiquitie, or noueltie can euer cloe. And I can 
not but; wonder at the strange presumption of some men that dare so 
audaciously aduenture to introduce any whatsoeuer forraine wordes, 
be they neuer so strange; and of themselues as it were, without a Parliament, 
without; any consent, or allowance, establish them as Free-denizens 
in our language. But this is but a Character of that perpctuall rcuolution 
which wee see to be in all things that neuer rcmaiuc the same, and we 
must hecrein be content to submit ourselues to the law of time, which 
in few yeeres wil make al that for which we now contend, Nothing. 




SIR JOHN DA.VIHK was the son of 
a Wiltshire gentleman, and was 

bom in 1569, lie was educated at 
Winchester and Queen's College, 
Oxford, where be graduated B.A. 
in 1590, In 1588 he was admitted 
a member of the Middle Temple, 
and was called to the Bar in 1595* 
Ilis celebrated poem, Orchestra, or 
a Pocwc of Dancing^ appeared in 
1596, It is written in 131 stanzas of 
seven lines, and was composed in 
fifteen clays. It is a remarkable 
tour de force, and in spite of its 
subject, may be read with very 
considerable pleasure, It was 
dedicated to his friend Richard 
Martin, subsequently recorder of 

London, to whom Jonson after- 
wards dedicated his Poetaster. In 
1598 the two friends quarrelled, 
and Davies broke a cudgel on Mar- 
tin's head in the hall of the Middle 
Temple. Martin on one occasion 
pointed out that " Judas " was an 
anagram of " Davis " (as it is, 
since i and / are the same letter, 
and v and u also rank as equiva- 
lents); but whether this was the 
cause or the effect of the quarrel is 
not clear. Davies was disbarred, 
and spent his enforced leisure at 
Oxford in composing Nosce Teip~ 
sum (1599), a poem on the immor- 
tality of the soul, written in the 
metre of Gray's Elegy. It is one 

9 6 


of the best didactic poems in 
the language, and its popularity 
did something to rchahililale its 
author's reputation. His Hymns 
to Astraea, twenty-six poems 
each one of which is an acrostic 
helped his career, and he was 
employed in writing entertainments 
for the court. In 1601 he was re- 
instated at the Bar, and his life 
was thenceforward devoted to law 
and politics rather than literature. 
He soon gained the favour of 
King James, who appointed him 
Solicitor- General for Ireland and 
knighted him in 1603. In 1606 ho 
was promoted to be Attorney- 
General for Ireland, and he remained 
in that country until 1619, becom- 
ing Speaker of the Irish Parliament; 
in 1613. lie played a prominent 
part in the plantation of Ulster, and 
made a determined though unsuc- 
cessful effort to banish all Roman 
Catholic priests from Ireland. In 
1612 he published his prose treatise 
A Discoverie of the True Causes why 
Ireland was never entirely subdued, 

*/ * 

nor brought under Obedience of the 

(trowne of England, untill the ttc- 
ginning of his Majesties haf^ic 
Raigne. He also wrote a legal 
treatise in law-French, In 1619 he 
returned to England, where he 
practised as king's serjeant lie 
was appointed Olid' Justice in 
1626, but: died of apoplexy before 
be took office. He bad been loo 
stout for many years; Manningham 
in bis Diary (1603) alluded to his 
corpulence and waddling gait in 
terms so indelicate that the editor 
of the Diary for the Camden 
Society fell: compelled to suppress 
the passage, 

Davies was an easy writer, and 
rose superior to the not very promis- 
ing; subjects which be selected and 
to the didicnlt verse-forms which 
be sometimes chose. His didactic 
poem is entertaining, and his 
acrostics are poems, not; mere verse- 

exercses. In his (hilling 

he pleasantly ridiculed that: fashion- 
able verse-form ; in his /tynframs 

he rivalled the coarseness but 
not; the charm of Martial, llts 
works have been edited by A. IJ. 

From "Nosce Teipsum" 

An Acclamation 

Oh! what is man (great Maker of mankind!) 
That Thou to him so great respect; dost; beare! 

That Thou adornst him with so bright a mind, 
Mak'st him a king, and cucn an angel's pccro! 

0! what a liucly life, what heauenly power, 
What spreading vertue, what a sparkling lire, 

How great, how plcntifull, how rich a dower 
Dost Thou within this (lying flesh inspire! 

r 1 1 


Thou leanest Thy print In other works of Thine, 
But, Thy whole image Thou in Man hast writ: 

There cannot he a creature more cliuine, 
Except (like Thee) it should he iniinit. 

But it exceeds man's thought, to thinke how hie 
(Joel hath raiscl man, since God a man became: 

The angels doe admire this Mistcrie, 
And are astonish! when they view the same. 

That the Sonic is Immortal, and cannot Die 

Nor hath He giuen these blessings for a day, 
Nor made them, on the bodices life depend: 

The Soule though made in time, suruiues for aye, 
And though it hath beginning, sees no end. 

Her onely end, is neuer-ending blisse; 

Which is, th* eternal! face of God to see; 
Who Last of Ends, and First of Causes, is: 

And to doe this, she must eternall bee. 

How scnselesse then, and dead a soule hath hee, 
Which thinks his soule doth with his body die! 

Or thiukes not so, but so would haue it bee, 
That he might sinnc with more sccuritie, 

For though these light and vicious persons say, 
Our soule is but a smoakc or ayrie blast; 

Which, during life, cloth in our nostrils play, 
And when we die, doth tunic to wind at last; 

Although they say, " Come let xis eat and drinke "; 

Our life is but a sparkc, which quickly dies: 
Though thus they say, they know not what to think, 

But: in their minds ten thousand doubts arise. 

Therefore no hcretikes desire to spread 
Their light opinions, like these Epicures: 

For so the staggering thoughts arc comforted, 
And other men's assent their doubt assures, 



Yet though these men against their conscience striue, 
There arc some sparkles In their flint io breasts 

Which cannot ho extinct, but still rcuiue; 

That though they would, they eannot; quite bee hcasls; 

But xvho so makes a mirror of his mind, 
And doth with patience view himselle therein, 

His Scale's cternitie shall elearely fintl, 
Thourh th' other beauties be defae't with sin. 

From "Orchestra" 

For that braue Sunne the Father of the Day, 
Doth luuc this Earth, the Mother of the Night; 
And like u rcucllour in rich aray, 
Doth claunce his gal Hard in his lenmiauls si^ht, 
Both back, and forth, and sidewaics, passing light; 
His princely grace doth so the gods aniaxe, 
That all stand still and at: his beauty ga/o. 

But sec the Iv.irth, when she approcheth neere, 
How she for ioy doth spring, and sweetly smile; 
But sec agaiue her sad and heauy eheere 
When changing places he retires a while; 
But those blake cloudes lie shortly will exile > 
And make them all before his presence (lye, 
As mists consumed before his choc* re full eye. 

Who doth not see the measures of the Mot mo, 
Which tlurtccnc times she dauneeth cuery yeure? 
And ends her pauine, thirtecuc times as soonc 
As doth her brother, of whose golden haire 
She borrowed! part, and proudly doth it weare; 
Then doth she coyly turne her face aside, 
Then halfc her cheeke is searse sometimes diserido 

Next her, the pure, subtile, and ekusing Fire 
Is swiftly carried in a circle euen: 
Though Vulcan be pronounst by many, a Iyer, 
The only halting god that dwcls in hea\ien: 
But that foule name may be more fitly giueu 
To your false Fire, that farre from hcaucn is fall: 
And doth consume, waste, spoile, disorder all. 


And now behold your tender nurse the Ayre 
And common neighbour that ay runns around: 
How many pictures and impressions faire 
Within her empty regions are there found, 
Which to your senees Dauncing doe propound! 

For what arc Breath, Speech, Kechos, Musickc, Winds, 

But Pauncings of the Ayre in sundry kinds? 

For when you breath, the ayre in order moues, 

Now in, now out, in time and measure trew; 

And when you spenke, so well she damieing loues, 

That doubling oft, and oft redoubling new, 

With thousand formes she doth her sclfe endew: 
For all the words that from our lips rcpairc 
Are nought but tricks and turnings of the ayre. 

Hence is her pratling daughter Eceho borne, 
That dauuees to all voyces she can heare: 
There is no sound so harsh that slice cloth scorne, 
Nor any time wherein shee will forbcare 
The ayrie pauement; with her feet to wcare: 

And yet; her hearing sencc is nothing quick, 

For after time she endcth cuery trick. 

And ihou sweet, Musieke, Dauaeing's onely life, 
The care's sole happinesse, the ayre's best spcach, 
Loadstone of fellowship, charming-rod of strife, 
The soft mind's Paradice, the sickc mind's leach, 
With thine own toug, thou trees and stons canst teach, 
That when the Aire doth dance her -finest measure, 
Then art thou borne, the gods and mens sweet pleasure. 

Lastly, where keepe the Winds their reuelry, 
Their violent turnings, and wild whirling hayes, 
But in the Ayrc's tralucent gallery? 
Where shee herselfe is turnd a hundreth wayes, 
While with those Maskers wantonly she playes; 

Yet in this misrule, they such rule embrace, 

As two at. once eneombcr not the place. 

If then fire, ayre, wandring and fixed lights 

In encry prouincc of the imperiall side, 

Yeeld perfect formes of dauncing to your sights, 


In vainc I teach the care, that which the eye 
With ccrtainc view already cloth clcscric. 

But for your eyes pcrceiue not all they see, 

In this 1 will your Senses Master bee. 

For loc the Sea that fleets about the Land, 
And like a girdle clips her solide waist, 
Musickc and measure both doth vnderstand: 
For his great chrystall eye is alwayes cast 
Vp to the Moone, and on her fixed fast: 

And as she dauneeth in her pallid sphccre, 

So claunccth he about his center heere. 

Sometimes his proud greene wanes in order set, 

One after other How vnto the shore, 

Which, when they haue with many kisses wet, 

They ebbe away in order as before; 

And to make kuownc his courtly lone the more, 
lie oft doth lay aside his three-forkt mace, 
And with his annes the timorous Earth embrace. 

Oncly the Earth cloth stand for euer still: 
Her rocks remouc not, nor lier mountaines meet, 
(Although some wits enricht with Learning's skill 
Say heau'n stands lirme, and that the Harlh doth licet, 
And swiftly turneth vnderneath their feet) 
Yet though the Karth is euer stcdfast; scene, 
On her broad breast hath Dauncing euer bcenc. 

xtts .A'A'AVA' -LI.) 

Hymns to Astraea 


To the Larke 

E Earlcy, cheerful], mounting Larke, 

I, Light's gentle vshcr, Morning's dark, 

I In merry notes delighting: 

S Stint awhile thy song, and harke, 

A And learnc my new inditing. 


B Bearc vp this hynme, to hctiu'n it beare, 

1C linen vp to heau/n, and sing it; there, 

T To hcau'n each morning beare it; 

II I lane it; set to some sweet sphere, 

A And let the Angels heare it, 

R Renownd Astracu, that great name, 

1C Exceeding great in worth and fame, 

G Great worth hath so rcnownd it; 

I, It is Astnica's name I praise, 

N Now then, sweet Larke, do thou it raise, 

A And in high lleanen resound it. 


Of a Cull 

Oft; in my laughing rimes, T name a Gull; 

But: this new tenne will many questions breed; 
Therefore at first I will expresse at full, 

Who is a true and perfect Gull indeed: 
A Gull is he who feares a veluet gowne, 

And, when a weneh is braue, dares not speak to her; 
A Gull is he which trauerseth the towne, 

And is for marriage known a common \voer; 
A Gull is he which while he proudly weares, 

A siltier-hilted rapier by his side, 
Imtures the lyes and knocks about the earcs, 

Whilst in his sheath his sleeping sword doth bide; 
A Gull is he which weares good handsome cloaths, 
And stands, in Presence, stroaking up his hairc, 
And fills up his imperfect speech with oaths, 
But to define a Gull in tonnes precise, 
A Gull is he which secmcs, and is not wise. 





KING JAMES VI of Scotland and 
I of England was the only son of 
Mary Queen of Scots and her 
cousin Henry, Lord Darnley, and 
was born in Edinburgh Castle in 
1566. In 1567, after the forced 
abdication of his mother, he was 
crowned at Stirling, and his child- 
hood was passed under the direc- 
tion of the Earl of Mar and the 
tuition of George Buchanan (q.v,). 
His reign in Scotland was notable 
for his struggles with the Presby- 
terian clergy and the Roman Catho- 
lic nobility; iu the end he suc- 
ceeded fairly well in getting his own 
way. When he ascended the throne 
of England in 1603, he found that 
his methods were not nearly so suc- 
cessful. His Scottish favourites and 
his Scottish manners and accent did 
not endear him to the people of 
England, and his struggles with 
Parliament and arbitrary methods 
of taxation laid the foundations of 
the Great Rebellion. The poisoning 
of Sir Thomas Overbury and the 
judicial murder of Raleigh (q,v.) 
did much to destroy the remnants 
of his popularity; and his favourite 
scheme of a Spanish marriage for 
Prince Charles, and its total failure, 
embittered the concluding years of 
his reign. He died in 1625. 

James desired to shine in many 
branches of literature. He would 
fain have been a poet, a theologian, 
a critic, and a publicist. In no 

department does lus work rise 
above a decent: mediocrity, though 
it has an interest of its own. The 
Kssaycs of a Prcntlsv in the Divine 
Art of Potw (i'5&|.) is what might 
be expected from a precocious lad 
of eighteen; the critical precepts 
which the volume contains are 
more interesting than the poems 
which are by way of illustrat- 
ing them, tttisilicwi Down (1599) 
is addressed to Prince Henry, 
and contains instructions for his 
" dearest sotine ami natural sue- 
eessour ". J)cinonolo^ic (i5<)7) is a 
dialogue not: without interest, in 
which he attempts to combat; the 
views of Reginald Scot (q.v,). Iu 
A, CwiHlcrbhtsIc to Tobacco he at- 
tempted, with the futility of Dame 
Partington, to put u stop to the 
practice of smoking. 1 Us theological 
and other political writings scarcely 
deserve separate enumeration. His 
collected works were published in 
a sumptuous folio edition in 1616, 
edited by James Montagu, Bishop 
of Winchester, who also prepared 
a Latin version (published I(>H)) 
lest the continent of Europe should 
be deprived of the benefit of 
perusing the royal author's treatises, 
[A. ,K, Wcsteott, New Poems of 
James I from tt hitherto //;//)///)- 
It shed MS. lit the ttritish Mnsenm\ 
C. H. Mdlwaiu, Political^ Work* 
of King James /; R. S- Rait, IM&US 
Regius. \ 


Ane Schort Treatise, containing some 

Reulis and Cautelis to be Obseruit and 

Eschewit in Scottis Poesie 

The Preface to the Reader 

The cause why (docile Reader) 1 have not declieat this short treatise 
to any particular personis, (as commouuly worlds usis to be) is, that I 
cstcnic all thais quha lies already some beginning of knawleclge, with 
ane earnest dc\syre to atteyne to farther, alyke meit for the reading of this 
worke, or any uther, quhilk may help thame to the attorning to their 
foirsuicl desyre. Bot as to this work, quhilk is mtitulit, The Reulis andcautelis 
to be obseniit and cschcwit in Scottis Pocsie, y,c may marvell peraventure, 
quhairfore 1 would hauc writtin in that mater, sen sa mony Icarnit 
men, baith of aukl and of late lies already written thairof in dyuers and 
sindry languages: I, answer, That notwithstanding, I hauc lykewayis 
writtin of it, I'or t,vvu eaussis: The ane is, As for them that wrait of auld, 
lykc as the tyme is changeit sensyne, sa is the ordour of Poesie changeit. 
For then they obseniit; not Flowing^ nor esehcwit not Rymlng in termes, 
besydes sindrie uther thingis, quhilk now we observe, and eschew, and 
dois weil in sa doing: because that now, quhen the warld is waxit auld, 
we hane all their opinionis in writ, quhilk were learned before our tyme, 
besydes our awin ingynis, qubair as they then did it onclie be thair awin 
ingynis, but help of any uther, Thairfore, quhat I speik of Poesie now, 
I speik of it, as being come to mannis age and perfectioun, quhair as 
then, it was hot in the infaneie and chyklheid. The uther cause is, That 
as for than ic that hes written in it of late, there lies never ane of thatne 
written in our language. For albeit sindrie lies written of it in English, 
quhilk is lykest to our language, zit we differ from thamc in sindrie reulis 
of Poesie, as zc will line! be experience. I have lykewayis omittit dyuers 
figures, quhilkis are aeeessare to be usit in verse, for two eaussis. The 
ane is, because they are xisit in all languages, and thairfore are spolcin 
of be Du Itcllayt and sindrie utlieris, quha hes written in this airt. 
Quhairfore gif I wrait of them also, it sould seme that I did hot repete 
that, quhilk they haue written, and zit not sa weil, as they haue done 
already. The uther caxisc Is, that they are figures of Rhetoriquc and Dia- 
lectique, quhilkis airtis I professe nocht, and thairfore will apply to my 
sclfe the eounsale, quhilk Apdks gaue to the shoemaker, quhen he said 
to him, seing him find fait with the shankis of the Image of Venus, 
efter that he had found fait with the pantoun, Ne sutor ultra crepidam. 

I will also wish BOW (docile Rcidar) that or ze cummer zow with 
reicling thir reulis, ze may find in zour self sic a beginning of Nature, 


as ze may put in practise in wmr verse many of lliir foirsaidis preeeptis, 
or euer ze sic them as they arc heir set doun. For gif Nature he noeht 
the cheif worker iu this airt, Rculis wilbe bot a band to Nature, and 
will mak zow within short: space weary of the haill airt: quhair as, gif 
Nature be chcif, and bent to It, reulis will be sine help and stair to Nature. 
I will end heir, lest my preface be lunger nor my purpose and haill muter 
following: wishing xo\v, docile Reidar, als guile success and great prolfeit: 
by reiding this short treatise, as T take earnist and willing panis to blok 
it, as ze sic, for Hour cause. Fare weill. 

From U A Countcrblaste to Tobacco 13 

And for the vanities committed in this filtlue customs, is it not both 
great vanitie and undeaaenesse, that at: tlie table, a place of respect, 
of clcanlincssc, of modestie, men should not be ashamed, to sit; tossing 
of Tobacco pipes, and puffing of the smoke of Tobacco one to another, 
making the filthy smoke and stinke thereof, to exhale athwart: the dishes, 
and infect the aire, when very often, men that abhorre it are at their 
repast? Surely Smoke becomes a kitehin far better then a I )ming chamber, 
and yet it makes a kitehin also oftentimes in the inward parts of men, 
soiling and infecting them, with an unctuous and oily kinde of Sooto, 
as hath bcnc found in some great Tobacco takers, that after their death 
were opened. And not onely meatc time, but no other time nor action 
is exempted from the puhlike use of this uncivill tneke: so as if the 
wives of Diepe list to contest with this Nation for good manors their 
worst mancrs would in all reason be found at least not so dishonest (as 
ours are) in this point. The publike use whereof, at all times, and in 
all places, hath now so farre preuailed, as diucrs men very sound both 
in lodgement, and complexion, luuie bene at last form I to take if also 
without desire, partly because they were ashamed to scenic singular, 
(like the two Philosophers that were forced to duck thcmselues in that 
raine water, and so become fooles as well as the rest of the people) and 
partly, to be as one that was content to eatc (Jarlioke (which bee did 
not love) that he might not be troubled with the smell of it, in the breath 
of his fellowes. And is it not a great vanitie, that a man cannot heartily 
welcome his friend now, but straight they must bee in hand with TolwccoJ 
No it is become in place of a cure, a point of good fellowship, and he 
that will refuse to take a pipe of Tobacco among his fcllowes, (though 
by his own election he would rather feclc the sauour of a Sinke) is 
accounted peeuish and no good company, ction as they doc with tippeling 
in the cold Eastcrne Countries. Yea the JMistresse cannot in a more 
manerly kinde, entertaine her seruunt, then by giuing him out of her 
faire hand a pipe of Tobacco. But herein is not onely a great vanitie, hut 


a great contempt of (Hods good giftcs, that the swcctcnesse of mans 
breath, being a good gift of God, should be willfully corrupted by this 
stinking smoke, wherein I must; confcsse, it hath too strong a vcrtuc: 
and so that which is an ornament of nature, and can neither by any 
artifice be at the first acquired, nor once lost, be recoticred againc, shall 
be filthily corrupted with an incurable stinkc, which vile qualitie is as 
directly contrary to that wrong opinion which is holdcn of the wholc- 
somnesse thereof, as the venimc of putrifaction is contrary to the vertue 

Moreoucr, which is a great iniquitic, and against all humanitie, the 
husband shall not bee ashamed, to reduce thereby his delicate, whole- 
some, and cleane ecmiplexioned wife, to that cxtremitie, that cither shee 
must also corrupt her swcetc breath therewith, or else resoluc to Hue in 
a perpetuall stinking torment. 

Haue you not reason then to bee ashamed, and to forbeare this filthie 
noueltie, so basely grounded, so foolishly rcceiucd and so grosscly mistaken 
in the right use thereof? In your abuse thereof sinning against God, 
harming your seines both in persons and goods, and raking also thereby 
the markes and notes of vanitie upon you: by the custome thereof making 
yoxir selues to be wondered at by all forraine ciuil Nations, and by all 
strangers that come among you, to be scorned and contemned. A custome 
lothsome to the eye, hatefull to the Nose, harmefuli to the braine, 
dangerous to the Lungs, and in the blacke stinking fume thereof, necrcst 
resembling the horrible Stigian smoke of the pit that is bottomclesse. 


JOSEPH HALL was born at Ashby- 
dc-ki-Xouch in 1574. His mother 
was a Puritan, and lie accordingly 
was educated at the newly-founded 
Puritan college, Emmanuel College, 
Cambridge. His academic career 
was a most distinguished one; he 
graduated BA. in 1593, M.A. in 
1596, B.D. in 1603, and D.D, in 
1 6x2. He was elected to a fellow- 
ship in 1595. lie took holy orders 
about 1600, and became incum- 
bent of llalsted, Suffolk, in the 
following year, Henry, Prince of 
Wales, appointed him his chaplain 

in 1608, and in the same year he 
became incumbent of Waltham, 
Essex. In Church matters he was 
mildly in sympathy with the mod- 
crate Puritans, hut in politics he 
showed himself in his later days a 
resolute monarchist. His attitude 
to Church and State made him 
disliked by the extremists of both 
sides, but he was well liked by 
King James and King Charles. 
lie became Dean of Worcester in 
1616, Bishop of Exeter in 1627, 
and Bishop of Norwich in 1641. 
He suffered severely during the 



Great Rebellion, He was im- 
prisoned, his revenues were seques- 
trated, his cathedral was desecrated 
and wrecked, and he was expelled 
from his palace in a brutal manner, 
He ended his long life at lligham, 
bearing all his misfortunes with 
true Christian humility. 

Hall began his career as a brilliant 
young don, and ended it as a vener- 
able prelate; not unnaturally the 
works of his youth dilTcr consider- 
ably from those of his old age. The 
difference is, however, even greater 
than might have been expected. 
His earlier works are pure Klixa- 
bcthan, his later works might 
belong to the end, not the middle, 
of the seventeenth century. When 
a young man of twenty-three he 
lashed the age, as young men are 
wont to do, in a collection of 
satires which lie named Vir^'dc mi- 
arum. This collection was in, two 
parts, one of " toothless " and one 
of " biting " satires. His claims to 
be the first English satirist were 
instantly contested by Marston, 
and have been justly contested by 
many writers since; but he appears 
to have been the first to follow 
Juvenal as a model instead of 
Horace. His satires are more 
vigorous than polished; a good 
deal of their fame no doubt is due 

to the light which they throw on 
the manners and customs of their 
time rather than to their purely 
literary merits. The curious satire 
on the Roman Catholics, Mnndus 
Alley ct hfem, need .scarcely be 
mentioned here, as it: is in Latin, 
and is not known, with certainty to 
be Hall's work. I Sis (lltaracters of 
Virtues and Vices (ifioS) is aii 
important pioneer prose work, be- 
ing the earliest book of character 
sketches in English to be modelled 
on the (Characters of Thcophrastus. 
As might be expected, the Vices 
are more eutcrluimng than the 
Virtues. These (!h(mwtm, though 
they do not bear obvious (races of 
it, are said to have been written 
with a view to introducing them 
into sermons, Hall's devotional 
works include A (lentttry of Medi- 
tfttionsj (hwlt'MfifdtfonSt and ser- 
mons. In these works he avoids 
the besetting theological win of 
crabbed ness, but falls somewhat 
into the opposite fault of verbosity, 
His controversial works, iu which 
he crossed swords oucc or twice 
with Milton, arc not important to 
the literary historian, to whom the 
poems of 'his youth count; for more 
than all the tractates of his riper 
[(!. Lewis, IJJv ()/>r/>// Mill.] 


A gentle squire would gladly entertain 
Into his house some trcncher-chappelain; 
Some willing man that might instruct his sons, 
And that would stand to good conditions. 
First, that lie lie upon the trucklc-bcd, 
Whiles his young master Heth o'er his head. 
Second, that he do, on no default, 
Ever presume to sit above the salt, 


Third, that he never change his trencher twice. 

Fourth, that he me all common courtesies; 

Sit bare at meals, and one half rise and wait. 

Last, that he never his young master heat, 

But he must ask his mother to define, 

How many jerks she -would his breech should line. 

All these observed, lie could contented he, 

To give live marks and winter livery. 

(Bk. II, Sat. VI.) 

What boots it, Pontlee, though thou couldst discourse 

Of a long golden line of ancestors? 

Or show their painted faces gaily drcst, 

From ever since before the last conquest? 

Or tedious bead-rolls of descended blood, 

From father Jnphet since Deucalion's flood? 

Or call some old church windows to record 

The age of thy fair arms; 

Or find some figures half obliterate 

In rain-beat marble near to the church gate 

Upon a cross-lcgg'd tomb: what boots it thee 

To show the rusted buckle that did tie 

The gaiter of thy greatest gnuulsire's knee? 

What to reserve their relics many years, 

Their silver spurs, or spils of broken spears? 

Or cite old eland's verse, how they did wield 

The wars in Turwin, or in Turney field? 

And if thou canst in picking straws engage 

la one half day thy father's heritage; 

Or hide whatever treasures he thec got, 

hi sonic deep cock-pit, or in desp'rate lot 

Upon ;i six-square piece of ivory, 

Throw both thyself and thy posterity? 

Or if ((> shame!) in hired harlot's bed 

Thy wealthy heirdom thou have buried: 

Then, Ponlicc, little boots thec to discourse 

(If a long golden, line of ancestors. 

Ventrous Fortunio his farm hath sold, 

And gads to Guianc land to fish for gold 

Meeting, perhaps, if Orcnoquc deny, 

Some straggling pinnace of Polonian rye: 

Then comes home floating with a silken sail, 

That Severn shakcth with his cannon peal; 

Wiser Rayznundus, in his closet pent, 


Laughs at such danger and advcnturcmcnt, 

When half his lands arc spent in golden smoke, 

And now his second hopeful glass is broke. 

But yet if hap'ly his third furnace hold, 

Devotcth all his pots and pans to gold: 

So spend thou, Ponlicc, if thou canst not spare, 

Like some stout seaman or philosopher. 

And were thy fathers gentle? that's their praise; 

No thank to thce by whom their name decays; 

By virtue got they it, and valorous deed; 

Do thou so, Ponticc, and be honoured. 

But else, look how their virtue was their own, 

Not capable of propagation. 

Right so their titles been, nor can be thine, 

Whose ill deserts might blank their golden line. 

Tell me, thou gentle Trojun, (lost thou prixc 

Thy brute beasts' worth by their dam's qualities? 

Sayst thou this colt shall prove a swift-paeM steed 

Only because a Jennet did him breed? 

Or sayst thou this same horse ahull, win, a prize, 

Because his dam was swiftest Truuchefitx, 

Or Runcevall his sire? himself a Galloway? 

Whiles like a tireJing jade he lags 1ml I -way. 

Or whiles thou scest some of thy stallion race, 

Their eyes bor'd out, masking the miller's nmo, 

Like to a Scythian slave sworn to the pail, 

Or dragging frothy barrels at his tail? 

Albc wise nature in her providence, 

Wont in the want of reason and of sense, 

Traduce the native virtue with the kind, 

Making all brute and senseless things iueliuM 

Unto their cause, or place where they were sown; 

That one is like to all, and all like one. 

Was never fox but wily cubs begets; 

The hour his fierceness to his brood besets: 

Nor fearful hare falls out of lion's seed, 

Nor eagle wont the tender dove to breed. 

Crete ever wont the cypress sad to bear, 

Acheron banks the palish popelar: 

The palm cloth rifely rise in Jury field, 

And Alphcus waters nought but olives wild. 

Asopus breeds big bulrushes alone, 

Meander, heath: peaches by Nilus grown, 

An English wolf, an Irish toad to see, 



Were as a chaste man nurs'd in Italy. 

And now when nature gives another guide 

To humankind that in his bosom bides, 

Above instinct his reason and discourse, 

His being better, is his life the worse? 

Ah me! how seldom see we sons succeed 

Their father's praise, in prowess and great deed? 

Yet ccrtes if the sire be ill inclin'd, 

His faults befall his sons by course of kind. 

Scaurus was covetous, his son not so; 

But not his pared nail will he forego. 

Plorian the sire did women love a-life, 

And so his son doth too, all but his wife. 

Brag of thy father's faults, they are thine own: 

Brag of his lands if those be not foregone. 

Brag of thine own good deeds, for they are thine, 

More than his life, or lands, or golden line. 

(Bk. IV, Sat. 777.) 


(?i543-? 2600 

VERY little is known about the life 
of Thomas Dcloncy. lie appears 
to have belonged to a French Pro- 
testant family, and to have been a 
silk-weaver for many years before 
winning fame as a ballad-maker. 
The date of his birth is merely 
conjectural; his death can be fixed 
with more accuracy, and took place 
about 1600. His literary career 
seems to have begun about^^, 
and the three novels to which he 
owes his present-day fame were 
written in the last few years of his 
life. He probably worked at Nor- 
wich when he was a silk-weaver; 
but followed the trade of journalism 
in London. In 1596 a ballad on the 
scarcity of corn caused some trouble 
with the authorities. That is al- 

most all that is known of Dcloney's 

His three novels wet Jack ofNew- 
bcry (1597), dealing with weavers; 
The Gentle Craft (two parts, 1597 
and 1598), dealing with shoemakers; 
and Thomas of Reading (?iS99), 
dealing with clothiers. These 
novels are all of the same kind; 
romance and realism rub shoulders 
together in them. When Deloney 
tells humorous and realistic tales 
in his own way, he is excellent; 
but when he is euphuistic, as 
fashion compelled him to be at 
times, he is as tedious as any of 
his contemporaries. He painted in 
an amusing style the humours of 
citizen life. He owed much to the 
old jest-books; in fact in some of 



his chapters he has merely fitted 
some standard jokes into a frame- 
work. He also owed much to con- 
temporary drama, which taught 
him the value of a comic under- 
plot. In one passage he echoes the 
words of FalstaiT. As a ballad- 
writer his free scope was hampered 
by his having to fit his words to 
street tunes; but sometimes he is 
vigorous and fresh in his ballads 
too. The novels contain some 
charming songs, written with a 
light touch. In the simple and 
direct prose of his novels he has 
left us an excellent picture of his 

times. His novels were widely 
popular, in the strict sense of that 
word, in their day. They were for 
a while neglected and "forgotten, 
and it is not so very long since they 
were rediscovered.' Their literary 
value is considerable; but they arc 
chiefly valuable for the pictures 
they give us unobtainable else- 
where of Elizabethan citizens, and 
of craftsmen who lived in days long 
before anyone, even in a nightmare, 
had foreseen the Industrial Revo- 

f [P- O. Mann, The Works of 
Thomas J)c/ottey.] 

From "The Pleasant History of Thomas 

of Reading" 

How Thomas of Reading wax 'murdered at his Uo$$ home of 

Cokbrookc, who aha had murdered many before htm, and how 

their wickedness was at length revealed.- -Chap. XL 

Thomas of Reading having many occasions to come to London, as 
well about his own affairs, as also the King's business, being in a great 
office under his Majesty, it chanced on a time, that his Host and Hostess 
of Colebrookc, who through eovctousness had murdered many of the 
guests, and having every time he came thither great store of his money 
to lay up, appointed him to be the next fat pig that should be killed; 
For it is to be understood, that when they plotted the murder of any man, 
this was always their term, the man to his wife, and the woman to her 
husband: wife, there is now a fat pig to be had, if you want one. 

Whereupon she would answer thus, 1 pray you put him in the hoiwty 
to-morrow. " 

This was, when any man came thither alone without others in his 
company, and they saw lie had great store of money. 

This man should be then laid in the chamber right over the kitchen, 
which was a fair chamber, and better set out than any other in the house: 
the best bedstead therein, though it were little and low, yet: was it most 
cunningly carved, and fair to the eye, the feet whereof were fast nailed 
to the chamber floor in such sort, that it could not in any wise fall, the 
bed that lay therein was fast sewed to the sides of the bedstead: Moreover, 
that part of the chamber whereupon this bed and bedstead stood, wast 


made in such sort, that by the pulling out of two iron pins below in the 
kitchen, it was to be let down and taken up by a drawbridge, or in manner 
of a trap door: moreover in the kitchen, directly under the place where 
this should fall, was a mighty great caldron, wherein they used to seethe 
their liquor when they went to brewing. Now, the men appointed for 
the slaughter, were laid into this bed, and in the dead time of the night, 
when they were sound asleep, by plucking out the foresaid iron pins, 
down would the man fall out of his bed into the boiling caldron, and 
all the clothes that were upon him: where being suddenly scalded and 
drowned, he was never able to cry or speak one word. 

Then had they a little ladder ever standing ready in the kitchen, 
by the which they presently mounted into the said chamber, and there 
closely took away the man's apparel, as also his money, in his male or 
capcase: and then lifting up the said falling floor which hung by hinges, 
they made it fast as before. 

The dead body would they take presently out of the caldron and throw 
it down the river, which ran near unto their house, whereby they escaped 
all clanger. 

Now it" in the morning any of the rest of the guests that had talked 
with the murdered man over eve, chanced to ask for him, as having 
occasion to ride the same way that he should have done, the goodman 
would answer, that he took horse a good while before day, and that he 
himself did set him forward: the horse the goodman would also take 
out of the stable, and convey him by a hay-barn of his, that stood from 
his house n mile or two, whereof himself did always keep the keys full 
charily, ami when any hay was to be brought from thence, with his own 
hands he would deliver it; then before the horse should go from thence, 
he would dismark him: as if he wore a long tail, he would make him 
curtal; or else crop his ears, or cut his mane, or put out one of his eyes; 
and by this means he kept himself unknown. 

Now Thomas of Reading, as I said before, being marked, and kept 
for a fat pig, he was laid in the same chamber of death, but by reason 
Gray of Gloucester chanced also to come that night, he escaped 

The next time he came, he was laid there again, but before he fell 
asleep, or was warm in his bed, one came riding through the town and 
cried piteously that London was all on a fire, and that it had burned 
down Thomas Beckct's house in West cheape, and a great number more 
in the same street, and yet (quoth he) the fire is not quenched. 

Which tidings when Thomas of Reading heard, he was very sorrowful, 
for of the same Becket that day he had received a great piece of money, 
and had left in his house many of his writings, and some that appertained 
to the King also: therefore there was no nay but he would ride back 
again to London presently, to see how Ac matter stood; thereupon making 


himself ready, departed. This cross fortune caused his host to frown, 
nevertheless the next time (qd. he) will pay for all. 

Notwithstanding God so wrought, that they were prevented then 
likewise, by reason of a great fray that happened in the house betwixt 
a couple that fell out at dice, insomuch as the murderers themselves 
were enforced to call him up, being a man in great authority, that he 
might set the house in quietness, out of the which by means of this 
quarrel, they doubted to lose many things. 

Another time when he should have been laid in the same place he 
fell so sick, that he requested to have some body to watch with him, 
whereby also they could not bring their vile purpose to pass. But hard 
It is to escape the ill fortunes whercunto a man is allotted: for albeit 
that the next time that he came to London, his horse stumbled and broke 
one of his legs as he should ride homeward, yet hired he another to hasten 
his own death; for there is no remedy but he should go to Colebrooke 
that night: but by the way he was heavy asleep, that he could scant 
keep himself in the saddle; and when he came near unto the town, 
his nose burst out suddenly ableeding. 

Well, to his Inn he came, and so heavy was his heart that he could 
eat no meat: his host and hostess hearing he was so melancholy, came 
up to cheer him, saying, "Jesus, Master Cole, what ails you to-night? 
never did we see you thus sad before: will it please you to have a quart 
of burnt sack?'* 

"With a good will " (quoth he) u and would to (Joel Tom Dove 
were here, he would surely make me merry, and we should lack no music: 
but I am sorry for the man with all my heart, that he is come so far 
behind hand: but alas, so much can every man say, hut what good doth 
it him? No, no, it is not words can help a man in this case, the man had 
need of other relief than so. Let me see: I have but one child in the 
world and that is my daughter, and half that I have is hers, the other half 
my wife's. What then? shall I be good to nobody but them? Iti conscience, 
rny wealth is too much for a couple to possess, and what is our religion 
without charity? And to whom is charity more to be shown, than to 
decayed householders? 

" Good my host lend me a pen and ink, and some paper, for I will 
write a letter unto the poor man straight; and something I will give him: 
That alms which a man bestows with Ids own hands, he shall be sure to 
have delivered, and God knows how long I shall live." 

With that, his hostess disscmblingly answered, saying: "Doubt not, 
Master Cole, you arc like enough by the course of nature to live many 
years. J> 

" God knows " (quoth he) " I never found my heart so heavy before/* 

By this time pen, ink, and paper was brought, setting himself in 
writing as followeth. 


In the name of God, Amen, I bequeath my soul to God, and my body 
to the ground, my goods equally between my wife Elenor, and Isabel, 
my daughter. Item I give to Thomas Dove of Exeter one hundred pounds, 
nay that is too little, I give to Thomas Dove two hundred pounds in 
money, to be paid unto him presently upon his demand thereof by my 
said wife and daughter. 

" Ila, how say you host " (qd. he) " is not this well? I pray you read 

His host, looking thereon, said, "Why Master Cole, what have you 
written here? you said you would write a letter, but methinks you have 
made a Will, what need have you to clo thus? thanks be to God, you 
may live many fair years." 

" Tis true " (quoth Cole) "if it please God, and I trust this writing 
cannot shorten my clays, but let me see, have I made a Will? Now, I 
promise you, I did verily purpose to write a letter: notwithstanding, 
I have written that that God put into my mind: but look once again my 
host, is it not written there, that Dove shall have two hundred pounds, 
to be paid when he comes to demand it?" 

"Yes indeed " (said his host). 

"Well then, all is well " (said Cole) "and it shall go as it is for me. 
I will not bestow the new writing thereof any more." 

Then folding it up, he sealed it, desiring that his host would send 
it to Exeter: he promised that he would, notwithstanding Cole was 
not satisfied; but after some pause, he would needs hire one to carry it. 
And so sitting down sadly in his chair again, upon a sudden he burst 
forth awceping; they demanding the cause thereof, he spake as followeth: 

" No cause of these fears I know: but it comes now into my mind " 
(said Cole) "when I set toward this my last journey to London, how 
my daughter took on, what a coil she kept to have me stay: and I could 
not be rid of the little baggage a long time, she did so hang about me, 
when her mother by violence took her away, she cried out most mainly, 
' my father, my father, I shall never see him again.' " 

"Alas, pretty soul " (said his hostess) "this was but mere kindness 
in the girl, and it sccmcth she is very fond of you. But alas, why should 
you grieve at this? you must consider that it was but childishness." 

"Ay, it is indeed " (said Cole) and with that he began to nod. 

Then they asked him if he would go to bed. 

"No " (said he) "although I am heavy, I have no mind to go to 
bed at all." 

With that certain musicians of the town came to the chamber, and 
knowing Master Cole was there, drew out their instruments, and very 
solemnly began to play. 

"This music comes very well " (said Cole) and when he had listened 
a while thereunto, he said, "Methinks these instruments sound like 

Vol.. It. 32 


the ring of S. Mary Overies bells, but the bass drowns all the rest: and 
in my car it goes like a bell that rings a forenoon's knell, for God's sake 
let them leave off, and bear them this simple reward." 

The musicians being gone, his host asked if now it would please him 
to go to bed; "for" (quoth he) "it is well-near eleven of the clock." 

With that Cole beholding his host and hostess earnestly, began to 
start back, saying, "What ails you to look so like pale death? good Lord, 
what have you done, that your hands are thus bloody?" 

"What, my hands " (said his host)? "Why, you may see they are 
neither bloody nor foul: either your eyes do greatly dazzle, or else 
fancies of a troubled mind do delude you." 

"Alas my host, you may see " (said he) "how weak my wits are, I 
never had my head so idle before. Come, let me drink once more, and 
then I will to bed, and trouble you no longer." 

With that he made himself unready, and his hostess was very diligent 
to warm a kerchief, and put it about his head. 

"Good Lord " (said he) "1 am not sick, I praise (Joel, but such an 
alteration I find in myself as 1 never did before." 

With that the screech-owl cried pitcously, and anon after the night 
raven sat croaking hard by his window, 

"Jesu have mercy upon me " (quoth he) "what an ill-favoured cry 
do yonder carrion birds make," and therewithal he laid him down in 
his bed, from whence he never rose again. 

His host and hostess, that all this while noted his troubled mind, 
began to commune betwixt themselves thereof. And the man said, lie 
knew not what were best to be done. "By my consent " (quoth he) 
"the matter should pass, for I think it is not best: to meddle on him." 

"What man " (quoth she) "faint you now? have you done so many 
and do you shrink at this?" Then showing him a great deal of gold which 
Cole had left with her, she said, "Would it not grieve a body's heart 
to lose this? hang the old churl, what should he do living any longer? 
he hath too much, and we have too little: tut, husband, let the thing be 
done, and then this is our own." 

Her wicked counsel was followed, and when they had listened at; 
his chamber door, they heard the man sound asleep: "All is safe" 
(quoth they) and down into the kitchen they go, their servants being 
all in bed, and pulling out the iron pins, clown fell the bed, and the man 
dropped out into the boiling caldron. He being dead, they betwixt them 
cast his body into the river, his clothes they made away, and made all 
things as it should be. 




tized at Stratford-on-Avon on 26th 
April, 1564. The traditional date 
of the 23rd April has been assigned 
to his birthday because three days 
was a customary interval between 
birth and baptism. The 23rd April, 
moreover, was certainly the date of 
Shakespeare's death, as well as the 
day sacred to England's patron 
saint. Shakespeare was born at a 
house in Henley Street which is 
still standing. John Shakespeare, 
the poet's father, came to Stratford 
from Snitterfield about 1551. He 
was a glover, a dealer in corn and 
timber, and probably also a butcher. 
In 1557 he had married Mary Arden 
of Wilmcote, who owned a small 
estate known as Asbies, as well as 
having an interest in two messuages 
at Snitterfield. Shakespeare was 
the third child of the marriage, but 
his two elder sisters died in infancy. 
It is almost certain that Shakespeare 
was educated at the free grammar- 
school at Stratford. There has been 
much difference of opinion about 
the exact amount of education he 
received; but there is every reason 
to believe that Ben Jonson's famous 
phrase about " small Latine, and 
lesse Greeke " was a purely relative 
expression. There is little doubt 
that without being a finished scholar, 
or anything of a close student, 
Shakespeare had read many of the 
ordinary Latin authors, of whom 
Ovid was his favourite. During 
Shakespeare's boyhood the pros- 
perity of his father declined con- 
siderably. His fortunes had reached 
their zenith in 1568, when he was 

high-bailiff of Stratford. As far as 
this wave of adversity can be dated, 
it would seem to have begun when 
the poet was about fourteen. It 
is probable that Shakespeare was 
taken away from school earlier than 
he would have been had his father's 
affairs continued to prosper. It is 
uncertain how he spent the next 
few years. One doubtful tradition 
asserts that he was a schoolmaster 
in the country (if so his education 
must have been above, or certainly 
not below, the average); another, 
equally doubtful, says that he was 
bound apprentice to a butcher. 
The legal knowledge shown in 
some of the plays may easily be 
accounted for by the facts that 
John Shakespeare was litigious, 
that Shakespeare found himself 
more than once in the hands of the 
law, and that members of the Inns 
of Court associated freely with 
actors and playwrights. It is not 
impossible that Shakespeare be- 
came an actor when much younger 
than twenty- one (the age usually 
given); he may have played 
women's parts as a boy, and have 
been driven back to Stratford in 
1582 by an outbreak of plague in 

In November, 1582, Shakespeare 
married Anne Hathaway, who was 
eight years his senior. The eldest 
child, Susanna, was baptized on 
2,6th May, 1583. On 2nd February, 
1585, Shakespeare's twins, Hamnet 
and Judith, were baptized. Late in 
1585 Shakespeare left Stratford for 
London. The immediate cause of 
his leaving, according to his first 


biographer, Rowc (1709), was that 
he "fell into ill-company, and was 
caught deer-stealing in the park of 
Sir Thomas Lucy of Charlcotc, 
who prosecuted him. Shakespeare 
retaliated with a ballad, and Lucy 
in anger hounded him out of War- 
wickshire. Fourteen years after- 
wards Shakespeare still felt sorest 
the treatment he had received, for 
he went out of his way to ridicule 
Lucy in The Merry Wives. 

It is not known how Shake- 
speare's connexion with the stage 
began. A doubtful, tradition says 
that he at first held the horses of 
playgoers during the performances. 
He had seen touring companies of 
actors at Stratford on several occa- 
sions; moreover, acting had all the 
charm of a new professionin this 
respect resembling cinema-acting 
in the early twentieth century --and 
held out alluring prospects of speedy 
success. We do not know bow 
good an actor Shakespeare was, but 
tradition credits him with having 
played Adam in As You Like //, the 
Ghost in Hamlet, and Old Knowell 
in Jonson's livery Man in his 
Humour, so that lie would appear 
to have specialized in taking old 
men's parts. He soon began to 
refurbish old plays, and gradually 
was led on from minor to major 
alterations, and so to original work. 
By 1593 be was important enough 
to be attacked by the dying pro- 
digal Robert Greene (q,v.), in his 
Groatsworth of Wit, and to be 
apologized to by Greene's executor, 
Henry Chcttle, in his Kind-Harfs 
Dream. Greene's hostility was more 
bitter than that which is felt towards 
a mere rival; it was the hostility 
which every writer feels towards 
those who revise, even if they im- 
prove, his work. In 1593 Shake- 

speare dedicated Venus and Adonis 
to the Karl of Southampton, and in. 
the next year dedicated the com- 
panion poem Litcrcce to the same 

On nth August, 1596, Shake- 
speare's only son, Ilamnet, was 
buried. On 2Qth October of the 
same year a draft; grant of arms was 
given to John Shakespeare; a 
second draft: was given, in 1599, 
On 4th 'May, 1597, Shakespeare 
bought New Place at Stratford for 
//)0. In [598 Shakespeare was 
enthusiastically praised by Francis 
Mercs in his Pallmlis Tamia, where 
twelve of the plays are enumerated, 
a priceless boon to Shakespearean 
chronologists. In i5<)<) the Globe 
Theatre was built on, Baukside, 
and Shakespeare was made a part- 
ner in Burbugcls company, John 
Shakespeare died in, September, 
1601, In May of the following 
year Shakespeare, who was now 
exceedingly prosperous, bought 107 
acres of land in Old Stratford, for 
the large sum, as it; was then, of 
320, in 1605 he bought for 440 
the thirty-two years' term, of the 
moiety of the lease of Stratford 
tithes. On 5th June, 1607, Susanna 
Shakespeare was married to John 
Hall, a prosperous physician of 
Stratford. Their only child, Klixa- 
beth, was baptized onaist February, 
1608; Shakespeare's mother died 
the following September. 

At some unknown elate, possibly 
about i6r,t, Shakespeare retired 
from London to Stratford. In 1613 
be bought: for ^140 a bouse and 
ground near Blaekfriars Theatre, 
London. On 2()tb June, 16x3, the 
Globe Theatre was burnt down 
during a performance of Henry 
VIII, ''and it is probable that many 
of Shakespeare's manuscripts were 






destroyed. On loth February, 
1616, Judith Shakespeare was 
married to Thomas Quiney, a 
vintner of Stratford. Shakespeare's 
health began to fail about this time; 
he executed his will on 25th March, 
1616, and died at New Place on 
23rd April. His will was proved 
by his son-in-law, John Hall, on 
22nd June. Anne Shakespeare died 
on 6th August, 1623. 


Venus and Adonis (1593) and 
Lucrece (1594) may be considered 
together, as they are companion 
pieces, both dedicated to the third 
Earl of Southampton. There is 
rather a superior air about both 
poems; Venus and Adonis bears 
the Ovidian motto villa miretur 
viilgus, &c.; perhaps some of the 
villa may have been stage-plays. 
Shakespeare also speaks of this 
poem as a the first heir of my in- 
vention ", so he evidently regarded 
it as his first legitimate child, the 
dramas in which others collabo- 
rated being of doubtful paternity. 
Neither of these miniature epics is 
an entire success. It is clear that 
in both cases Shakespeare chose 
the subject; the subject did not 
choose him, though it has been 
suggested by someone with an 
atrophied sense of humour that, 
when writing Venus and Adonis, 
Shakespeare drew upon his recol- 
lections of his own courtship. Both 
poems are written in easy flowing 
verse, and both have vivid touches 
in them, and excellent descriptions 
of nature. The earlier poem is the 
livelier and more spontaneous of 
the two, but the later is more 
mature and is metrically superior. 
Lucrece, however, protests too 

much; she tears a passion to rags; 
there is more feeling in the brief 
ejaculations or even in the silences 
of Shakespeare's mature characters. 
The year 1593 was a year of plague, 
so that the theatres were closed 
and Shakespeare was idle. To this 
rather than to inspiration the two 
poems owe their origin. They both, 
however, display a combination of 
elaborate art and steady determina- 
tion to succeed, and provide a good 
argument against those critics who 
declare that Shakespeare dashed off 
his plays in a hasty and perfunctory 

A Lover's Complaint is attributed 
to Shakespeare solely because it 
was included in the first edition of 
the Sonnets (1609). It is almost 
certainly not his work, being every- 
thing good and everything bad that 
is implied by the word "pretty". 

The Passionate Pilgrim was pub- 
lished by William Jaggard in 1599. 
It was a piratical venture, contain- 
ing two of Shakespeare's sonnets, 
three poems out of Love's Labour's 
Lost) four poems on the subject of 
Venus and Adonis, and miscel- 
laneous songs by men like Barnfield 
and Griffin. It is of interest as 
showing that Shakespeare's name 
had in 1599 some commercial value 
on a title page. 

The Phoenix and the Turtle was 
printed in Robert Chester's Love's 
Martyr: or Rosalin's Complaint in 
1 60 r. It is a fine-sounding poem, 
and probably once had a meaning; 
but it is unintelligible now. That, 
perhaps, does not matter, as the 
poem is "of a transcendental 
kind ". 

The Sonnets are the most beau- 
tiful and most important of Shake- 
speare's poems, but they present 
the thorniect problems in Shake- 


speareau crticism. They were 
published piratically in 1609 hy 
one Thomas Thorpe, who dedi- 
cated them " to the onlic begetter 
of these insuing sonnets, Mr. W. 
H.'\ Thorpe bears out the truth 
of the ancient legal maxim that; 
" pirata cst host is h umani generis", 
so dark a riddle has he bequeathed 
us. The principal problems of the 
Sonnets are the identities of Mr. 
W. H., of the youth to whom many 
of the sonnets are addressed, of the 
dark lady mentioned in many of 
the poems, and of the rival poet 
mentioned in a few. But the 
master-problem which lies behind 
all these is " 3 low far are the 
Sonnets autobiographical? ". The 
answers to these questions are 
many and various. Sir Sidney Lee 
identified Mr. W. 1L with one 
William Hall, n publisher who 
played the part of pirate-lieutenant 
to Thorpe's pirate-king, but who 
was in no way connected with 
Shakespeare, Other theories iden- 
tify him with Henry Wriothealey, 
third Earl of Southampton; with 
William Herbert, third Karl of 
Pembroke; and with a boy-actor, 
William Hughes. This last theory 
was suggested by Tyrwbitt, and 
supported in characteristic fashion 
by Oscar Wilde. Hughes still 
remains, however, as nebulous a 
person as Mrs. Harris. It is quite 
possible that the youth and Mr. 
W. H. are not one and the same; 
in which case it is likely enough 
that the youth is the third Earl of 
Southampton, to whom Venus and 
Adonis and Lucrcce were addressed, 
and who was, as far as we know, 
Shakespeare's only patron, The 
dark lady has been identified with 
innumerable real and allegorical 
persons; a fairly good case has 

been made out for identifying the 
rival poet; with Chapman. Much 
perverted ingenuity lias been ex- 
pended upon (he interpretation of 
the tionticts; allcgorists have thrown 
all restraint to the winds; the 
amateur detectives of literature 
have followed up false trails in- 
numerable. The problem of the 
tionncts, however, exercises upon 
the public mind the same fascination 
as the Man in the .Iron Mask or 
The Mystery of Kdwin Dnwtf. It 
is extremely likely that, in the 
absence of further material evi- 
dence, the problem will never be 
solved. It is very probable that 

j * ' 

the autobiographical clement: in 
the *SW/r/,v is either very small or 
so much transmuted from reality 
as to be of no value, Jf it be the 
case that "the truest poetry is 
the most feigning J \ it is possible 
that: the characters in the tfwuiefs 
are fictitious characters; lay-figures 
which have come alive, quickened 
by the same mind that gave life 
to crude chronicle- histories and 
revenge -plays. There is, at any 
rate, no doubt that the sonnets 
differ greatly in poetic value, some 
being supreme poetry and others 
mere literary exercises; and it is 
quite permissible to think that the 
Sonnets are a disconnected scries 
of short poems in u more or less 
amorous vein, and that Shake- 
speare did not unlock his heart 
when composing them, If he did, 
" the less Shakespeare he ", not 
because the heart, lie displays is 
unworthy of him, but; because the 
action of unlocking the heart is 
quite xuvShakespearean. Some 
critics, however, still believe that 
in these poems Shakespeare 
" cleansed the stuiFtl bosom of 
that perilous stuff which weighs 



upon the heart ", and that the 
purgation which Aristotle tells us 
that tragedies should effect in 
the audience was effected in the 
Sonnets for their author. 


Shakespeare's plays were written 
to amuse; they were intended as 
shows, but are usually examined 
under the microscope. A bird's- 
eye view of the thirty-seven plays 
may, therefore, be of some value 
as a corrective to over-elaborate 
study of some half-dozen of the 
most celebrated of them. The 
discovery of the approximate order 
in which Shakespeare wrote his 
plays is perhaps the greatest con- 
tribution of the nineteenth century 
to Shakespearean scholarship. It 
is possible now to trace the growth 
of his mind and art. He developed 
much as an ordinary man does, 
and it is no more derogatory to his 
genius to say so than it is blasphe- 
mous to maintain that the universe 
was not created by a single act. 

Titus Andronicus (1588) is almost 
certainly not by Shakespeare, though 
his name has kept alive interest 
in this dull and detestable melo- 
drama of blood. It was ascribed 
to him by Meres in 1598, and 
included in the 1623 Folio by 
Heminge and Condell. On the 
strength of these facts it is hard to 
deny that Shakespeare had a hand 
in it, but its author was probably 
Peele, who stood almost alone in 
producing work which he himself 
knew to be bad, in the hope that 
the audience would not find it out. 
The play is obviously the work of 
a novice, who had yet to learn that 
lopped limbs and human pies do 
not constitute a tragedy. 

King Henry VI, Part I (1590- 
1591) stands rather apart from 
Parts II and III of King Henry VL 
It deals with the war in France, 
not with the Civil War, and con- 
tains much tentative writing. Great 
liberties are taken with history. It 
may be in the main the work of 
Greene and Peele, with scenes by 
Shakespeare, but not revised by 
him as a whole. Its presence in the 
Folio does not decide the question 
of Shakespeare's authorship, as the 
three parts of the play would 
naturally hang together. It may 
have been Shakespeare's .revision 
of Greene's share in this play which 
called forth Greene's dying curse. 
It is a relief to know that the odious 
scenes in which Joan of Arc is 
travestied are without doubt not by 

Love's Labours Lost (1590) is 
a Lylyesque and highly amusing 
comedy of dialogue. No other 
Shakespearean play is so much 
"of an age ", so little " for all 
time ". There are signs that it was 
written for a private performance 
before a small audience composed 
of the smart set; Shakespeare at 
this point of his career " to party 
gave up what was meant for man- 
kind ". The commercial drama 
the " public means " of which he 
complained improved his work. 
This is, however, the first play 
which contains anything of Shake- 
speare's personality. In it he has 
been prodigal of his genius. The 
pun is the intellectual wild oats of 
men who are unusually gifted; 
those who play with words when 
young are lords of language in 
their riper years. Affectation of 
one sort or another gives rise to 
most of the fun in this play, which 
is a plea against shaping our lives 



by narrow mlcs and artificial sys- 
tems. The king and his friends, 
who tried to be philosophers, but 
found cheerfulness always breaking 
in, arc excellent comic characters, 

The Comedy of Errors (iS<)0 is 
a skilfully constructed farce based 
upon the Mrnacchmi of Plautus. 
One scene (Act Hi, Scene i) \vas 
suggested by Plautus's Awp/u'Inio. 
iC was typical of Shakespeare's 
rapidly ripening genius to have 
discovered that "our sincercst 
laughter with sonic pain is fraught; "; 
he added a serious background to 
the play, and made it look forward 
to Pericles ) (lymheline, The Winter's 
Tale, and The Tempest in its story 
of lost relations Hading each other. 
There is also a more or less serious 
study of jealousy, It is a good act- 
ing play, though, like the u book " 
of an opera, somewhat hard to 
follow in reading. It is remarkable 
among the early plays for the 
rapidity of its exposition and its 

The Two Gentlemen of Verona 


(1592) is a kind of overture to the 
great series of romantic comedies. 
In many ways it is inferior to L<we*s 
Labours Lost and The. Comcdv of 

m " 

Errors, but it is greater in promise, 
and in promise of Shakespeare's 
own type of comedy, It is badly 
constructed, slow in its exposi- 
tion, and conventional in its ending. 
Its characters are symmetrically 
grouped, like the nieces and uncles 
in Mr, Pull's tragedy of The 
Spanish Armada. But real genius 
is shown in the drawing of the 
characters, especially in those of 
Launcc and the Host. There are 
three ingredients which go to make 
up a playdialogue, plot, and 
characterization and at first Shake- 
speare concentrated on one to the 

detriment of the others. 
Labour's Lwt excels in dialogue, 
The (Jmncdy of Errors iu plot /ami 
The Two (Jen tie men in character- 
i/ation. In his next comedy Shake- 
speare excelled in all three, though 
undoubtedly helped by the dream- 
like nature of his subject. 


A Midsnmnwr- Night's Dream 
(i5<)3 1594) is l he consummation 
of the early comedies. It was 
probably written to be performed 
privately, The different 1 1 treads of 
the plot are most cunningly inter- 
woven, This play is closely con- 
nected with Romeo tind Juliet, 
which represents love in its tragic 
aspect, as A hlhhnmmer~Night' > s 
Dream represents it in its fantastic 
aspect. Moreover, the plot of 
l*yr<iMM and Tliislw bears no small 
resemblance to the plot of Romeo 
and jfnlieL It is probable that 
Shakespeare was putting his soul 
into these two plays while engaged 
in the more or less dull task of 
refurbishing the three parts of 
Kitig I ferny 17. 

A7//# Jtcwy 17, A/r/.v // find 111 
( I S9 t ""*5 ( )) are usually considered 
to he only in part the work of 
Shakespeare. The Second Part is 
u recast of an older play y The Wrst 
Part of the (Contention, and the 
Third "Part a recast of The True 
Tnwedie of Richard. Duke of Yorkc. 

* * * #" 

It is usually believed that all these 
plays are the work of u committee 
of which Marlowe, (ireene, Shake- 
speare, and Peelo xvere members. 
The problem of the authorship of 
any given passive is insoluble, and, 
like the plays themselves, of secon- 
dary importance. It in certain that 
there was collaboration or redaction 
in A7//# Henry 17, but it; is impos- 
sible to distinguish between Shake- 
speare writing like Marlowe, Greene 



writing like Marlowe, and Marlowe 
writing like himself, and so with 
all the collaborators. 

King Richard III (1593), though 
the most Marlowesque of all the 
plays of Shakespeare, is probably 
Shakespeare's unaided work his 
first historical play written without 
collaboration. It is a melodramatic 
play which stops at nothing to 
attain its effects. In Marlowe's 
fashion it has a dominating: prot- 
agonist, and an opening soliloquy. 
Richard III was immensely popular; 
Burbage made his reputation in 
this play, which from an actor's 
point of view is a one-man play. 

Romeo and Juliet (1591, perhaps 
revised 1596) is the tragic master- 
piece of Shakespeare's first period. 
Two of its most noticeable features 
are that it has no underplot, the 
story moving unimpeded upon its 
course, and that it is filled with 
splendid poetry. Hitherto the 
poet and the dramatist in Shake- 
speare had worked turn about 
rather than collaborated; in this 
play they are fast allies. 

King Richard II (1594) might 
be called anti-Marlowesque in its 
style. Shakespeare has definitely 
broken away from his discipleship 
to Marlowe, and is writing in his 
own style a play on a subject akin 
to that of Edward II. There is a 
lyrical element in this play which 
links it closely with Romeo and 
Juliet. Richard II, a king of shreds 
and purple patches, is splendidly 
drawn. There is a lack of comic 
scenes, and prose is avoided. 

King John (1595) is the greatest 
example of adaptation in the works 
of Shakespeare. It is not altogether 
an attractive play, but it lets us see 
into Shakespeare's workshop more 
than any other play. It is based 

upon an old play, The Troublesome 
Raigne of John, King of England, 
of which it retains much, while 
elevating much into poetry. It 
does not adhere closely to the facts 
of history. The Bastard is a great 
figure, and points the way to the 
cycle of histories that are founded 
upon humour and heroism. 

The Merchant of Venice (1596) is 
an extremely popular play which 
combines several different stories 
into one harmonious whole. So 
graphically has this been done that 
some critics forget that the play is 
a romantic and extravagant play, 
and that the Venice which it repre- 
sents lies, not in Italy, but East of 
the Sun and West of the Moon. It 
is a mistake to regard Shylock as a 
tragic figure. 

King Henry IV ", Parts I and II 
(1597-1598) may be regarded as 
one play in ten acts. In this play 
the chronicle turns into the comedy 
of manners. This cycle of plays 
the Lancastrian trilogy is the most 
genial of all the Shakespearean 
cycles. From the dramatic point of 
view these plays are without form 
and void, but as comedies of manners 
they are unmatched and unmatch- 
able. Falstaff " doth bestride the 
narrow world like a Colossus ", 
and is the greatest comic creation 
in ancient or modern literature. 

King Henry V (1599) is the last 
of the historical plays, properly so 
called. Its qualities are those of an 
epic rather than those of a play. 
Its dramatic interest is slender, 
but it contains some splendid 
pieces of patriotic writing. A 
temporary loss of self-confidence 
is perhaps to be seen in the apolo- 
getic prologues. 

The Taming of the Shrew (1597) 
is an adaptation of an earlier play, 



The Taming of A Shrew (published 
1594). The later pky is the statu- 
tory five acts. The authorship of 
A Shrew is one of the most inter- 
esting of Shakespearean problems, 
interesting though (perhaps be- 
cause) insoluble, It has been 
assigned to every near and impor- 
tant predecessor of Shakespeare 
save Lyly and Nash. Shakespeare's 
play has been said to delineate the 
tragedy which occurs when a manly 
spirit is born into a woman's body; 
but " Twere to consider too curi- 
ously to consider so ". The play 
is just a lively farce, the off-hand 
sketch of a mature artist whose 
serious energies were concentrated 
on greater tasks. 

The Merry Wives of Windsor 
(1598) was, according to a fairly- 
well established tradition, written 
in fourteen days in obedience to a 
command of Queen Elizabeth, who 
wished to sec FalstalT in love- 
Even Shakespeare could not write 
his best when writing to order, and 
Falstaff in love was a contradiction 
in terms. The play, however, is a 
bright, mirthful comedy, and is 
excellently constructed, being much 
better than Henry IV in this respect- 
It was almost certainly performed 
at Windsor, and probably on 8t 
George's (Garter) day. Falstalf 
was transplanted into Elizabethan 
times, nor does he bear a much 
closer resemblance to his namesake 
in Henry IV than Iludibras does to 
Don Quixote. The Merry Wives 
has about it a pleasant air of spon- 
taneity and " unpremeditated art " 
Owing to its impromptu nature, it 
lets us see into Shakespeare's mind, 
because " out of the abundance of 
the heart the mouth speakcth 3> . 

Much Ado about Nothing (1598) 
is a great but unequal play. The 

underplot, which is delightful 
comedy, has swallowed up the 
main plot, which is unpleasant 
melodrama, so that the play is not 
quite satisfactory. 

yj.v You Like 1 1 (1599) was based 
on Lodge's prose tale, Kosalymh\ 
Kuphuea (toldcu Lcgacic, published 
nine years earlier. It is full of the 
spirit of romance; and the dainty 
wit; of Touchstone, the wisest fool 
in Shakespearcdom, illuminates the 
whole play. Even in this play, how- 
ever, there are signs that Shake- 
speare has turned his wit the seamy 
side without. There is much 
cynicism in the play, which quite 
definitely satirises pastoralism on 
occasion. The ending is purely 
conventional; every comedy must 
end with a bout of marriages, just 
as every tragedy must: end with a 
series of deaths. According to our 
ideas, Horace's rule, u nee dens 
intcrsit nisi digmus vmdice nodus", 
applies to Hymen and the knots 
which he tics no less lluux to other 
deities and the knots which they 

Twelfth Night (1600) is the acme 
of Shakespearean comedy. It lias 
all that is most mirthful and 
exquisite in Muck Ado and As You 
Like It, with something of -added 
mirth and grace. To treat Malvolio 
as an almost tragic personage is an 
absurd mistake made by some 

Julius Crrsar (1601) is the first of 
the Roman plays based on Plutarch,, 
the human est though not the most 
accurate of biographers. it is 
probable that Shakespeare spent 
an unusual amount of time on this 
play. The language and thought 
are exquisitely clear, and are more 
evenly balanced than in any other 



Hamlet (1602) is perhaps the 
most popular of the plays. It has 
been classed, with Julius C&sar, as 
a tragedy of reflection, but to the 
Elizabethan playgoer of 1602 it 
probably appeared to be a good 
brisk melodrama with plenty of 
sensation in it. It is undoubtedly 
based upon an old revenge-tragedy, 
probably the work of Kyd. There 
are some minor inconsistencies in 
the play, due in part to the survival 
of some features of the old play, 
and in part to the drastic but in- 
complete revision which Shake- 
speare gave to his first draft. The 
heart of Hamlet's mystery can be 
almost if not quite plucked out; 
some of the difficulties which tor- 
mented commentators of a bygone 
generation were due to their not 
realizing that in a revenge-play 
there was a certain tacit under- 
standing between author and 
audience, just as there is to-day 
between the author of a detective 
story and his readers. 

All's Well that ends Well (?i6oi) 
is a curious play with an uncertain 
literary history. Parts of it are 
immature, both in style and metre, 
and parts of it are certainly Shake- 
speare's mature work. It is perhaps 
a recast of an earlier play, which 
many critics identify with Love's 
Labour's Won, mentioned by Meres 
in 1598. The uncertain touch with 
which the character of the heroine 
is drawn is a sign of early work or 
patchwork. The blending of styles 
makes this play unique. 

Measure for Measure (1603) is 
that mixture of dramatic and un- 
pleasant qualities which is usually 
known as a " strong " play. It is 
very much less tragic than its 
source. Shakespeare's magic has 
given reality to a romantically 

improbable story. The conven- 
tional ending would not seem out 
of place in a conventional play, in 
a play in which " they do but jest, 
poison in jest "; but Shakespeare 
in this play propounds a problem 
of absorbing interest, and shirks 
giving a satisfactory solution of it. 

Troilus and Cressida (?i6o3) is 
the most obscure of Shakespeare's 
plays, and leaves a confused effect 
upon its readers. Though weak as 
a play, it is strong as a satire; it 
may be doubted if it was ever a 
money-making play. It is ambigu- 
ous even in its position in the 
Folio, where it occupies a kind of 
limbo between the histories and 
the tragedies, and is not mentioned 
in the " catalogue " or table of 
contents. It is the only play of the 
thirty-seven which is filled with 
bitterness and the crackling of 
thorns under a pot. Truth, love, 
heroism, wisdom, chastity what- 
soever things are lovely and of 
good report are the subjects of 
gibes and mockery. And now 
tragedy follows tragedy. 

Othello (1604) is at once the 
most painful and the most perfect 
of all the plays, and is the most 
tremendous effort of Shakespeare 
as a dramatist. In construction it 
is as perfect as a play of Sopho- 
cles. There is no underplot. 
Coleridge contrasted this play fav- 
ourably with Hamlet and Lear, 
where, he said, there was some- 
thing gigantic and unformed; in 
Othello " everything assumes its 
due place and proportion, and the 
whole mature powers of his mind 
are displayed in admirable equi- 
librium ". 

King Lear (1605) is the m ost 
titanic of all the plays, and is the 
most tremendous effort of Shake- 



spearc as a poet. It combines 
rapidity with length, and has the 
lire and sublimity of the best work 
of /Eschylus. It is too vast a sub- 
ject for the stage, and gives the 
impression of being out of time 
and space. In this play we see the 
first signs of that lack of verbal and 
metrical restraint which is so not- 
able in the latest plays. The lan- 
guage cannot always support the 
weight of the thought. 

Macbeth (1606) is, unfortunately, 
only preserved in an Imperfect 
state. It was written to please 
James, hence the subject was taken 
from Scottish history, and hence 
the allusions to dcmonology, upon 
which the king had written a book, 
and to the healing of scrofula by 
means of the royal touch. It is 
possible that the priming-knife was 
unskilfully applied to Mttcbcth to 
make it more suitable for perfor- 
mance at court. One of the most 
remarkable features of this play is 
its extreme rapidity. It moves 
swiftly and relentlessly to its denoue- 

Antony and Cleopatra (,1607) is 
a play of kaleidoscopic variety, it; 
is slightly defective in construction, 
and lacks an absorbing centre of 
interest. It was perhaps rather 
hastily written, and has the excel- 
lences and defects of rapid work. 
Cleopatra is the greatest of Shake- 
speare's women, and the most 
complete psychological study in 
all the plays. 

Conolamis (1608) is a somewhat 
austere play, with little of the lyric 
manner in it, and containing a 
good deal of rather difficult writ- 
ing, not unlike that of Browning, 
Many gifts have gone to its making, 
but not the supreme gift of love. 
Coriolanus is much less tragic than 

its immediate predecessors, as when 
the hero dies lie loses his life but 
saves his soul. This is significant 
as marking the cud of the tragic 

Titnon of Athens (Pifioy 1608) is 
a pn/xling and chaotic play. Tarts 
of ; it are in, Shakespeare's most 
majestic style, and parts of it; seem 
to he the work of an unskilful 
journeyman; but the dilliculty of 
separating the wheat from the 
tares is greater in, this than in, any 
other play. .It has been suggested 
that this play was completed not 
for acting, but for inclusion in the 
1623 Folio. .It may preserve much 
of Shakespeare's preliminary draft. 

Pericles (1608) is the overture to 
the series of four romances with 
which Shakespeare ended his career 
as dramatist. Before writing these 
plays his mind was born, again. 
Like "the wretch that long has 
tost on the thorny bed of pain ", 

The meanest floweret of the vale 
The simplest; note that swells the 


Phe common sun, the air, the skies, 
To him are opening Paradise. 

In these plays Shakespeare harked 
hack to the reunion of parted kins- 
folk, a subject; he had clealt with in 
the serious underplot of The (loniedv 
of Errors, The first two acts of 
Pericles are worthless, and are the 
work of some very inferior play- 
wright, possibly George Willdns. 
This is the partnership of Alpha 
and Omega, the first and the last; 
and there is no stronger evidence 
of the small value which Shake- 
speare set on his work, 

The Winters Tale (1:610) is based 
upon Greene's novel Pandoslo 
(named Doras tus and l<\iwnia in its 
later editions). Autolycus is Shake- 




speare's own invention, and one of 
the most agreeable of all rogues. 
In the story of the wooing of 
Florizel and Perdita, the shep- 
herdess who is really a princess, 
Shakespeare dealt with a situation 
common in Menander and the 
New Comedy, but treated it in 
his own pure and delicate way. 
The statue-scene at the end of the 
play is immensely effective on the 

Cymbeline (1610) is somewhat 
complicated and difficult to follow, 
but it contains the beautiful figure 
of Imogen ? the sweetest woman 
ever created by God or man. This 
character and some magnificent 
poetry help to make amends for a 
certain lack of probability in this 
play, which treads close on the 
heels of the greatest of the plays. 

The Tempest (1611) is the greatest 
of the four romances, and is the 
last song of the f< sweet swan of 
Avon ". In this play Shakespeare 
" called the New World into exis- 
tence to redress the balance of the 
Old ". Music and magic and poetry 
meet in it and make it the Master's 
masterpiece. Its technique is 
perfect. It obeys the laws of unity 
of time and of unity of place. It 
has solved the problem of how to 
represent a reconciliation twelve 
years having elapsed since the 
estrangement upon the stage. It 
is impossible to refrain from identi- 
fying Prospero with Shakespeare 
himself. Prospero the magician is 
a man who has complete mastery 
over himself. His magic chiefly 
consists in this, Heminge and 
Condell showed much wisdom in 
putting this play first in the Folio, 
to attract the hesitating purchaser. 

Henry VIII (1612) is actually the 
last play to which Shakespeare 

contributed a share, though The 
Tempest is his last great work and 
contains his farewell to the stage. 
Roughly a third of the play is by 
Shakespeare; the rest is by Fletcher. 
Some critics see the hand of Mas- 
singer in certain parts. This play 
depends for its success more upon 
pageantry and declamation than 
upon plot and poetry. It may 
perhaps contain some old material, 
laid aside by Shakespeare years 
before and made over to Fletcher 
when Shakespeare retired to Strat- 

To attempt in a few words to 
appreciate the genius of Shakespeare 
is as difficult as it is to " hold in- 
finity in the palm of your hand ". 
Nevertheless, certain salient features 
of the man may be briefly set down. 
The greatest of all his manifold 
gifts was his large-minded impar- 
tiality his god-like tolerance, 
which enabled him to sympathize 
with human nature in all its shapes, 
degrees, depressions, and eleva- 
tions. Another of his great gifts 
was that he had, especially in his 
mature plays, the happy knack of 
pleasing both himself and his 
audience with his work. He did 
not, like Fletcher, pander to the 
groundlings; nor did he, like 
Jonson, attempt to bully them into 
liking what was above their heads. 
Simply by the alchemy of his 
genius he could turn the base lead 
of crude farces, tedious chronicle- 
histories, and ranting tragedies of 
revenge into the pure gold of his 
sunny comedies, his masterly his- 
torical plays, and his majestic 
tragedies. He was born at a fortu- 
nate time. Marlowe, one of the 
greatest of literary pioneers, had 
made straight the paths for him. 



He began his career as a junior 
doing alterations only; when he 
had completed his great series of 
historical plays, he was a past- 
master of dramatic writing. The 
composition of his histories was 
probably the best education that 
he could have had; had he not 
worked at these plays he might 
have been a kind of superior 
Fletcher in comedy, and but 
slightly better than Webster in 
tragedy. As it was, he went on 
from strength to strength, writing 
masterpieces of romantic comedy 
and tragedies of all kinds, ending 
finally with his romances, in which 
he seems to look down as from a 
height upon all the doings of man- 

teen of Shakespeare's plays (in- 
cluding Pericles) were printed in 
quarto between 1:597 and 1622. 
Four of the plays published in, 
quarto are obviously pirated (Romeo 
and J illicit Hairy V, Merry Wiws, 
and Hamlet), and it is not likely 
that Shakespeare authorized, though 
he may have connived at, the 
publication of any of them. In 
1623 appeared the first collected 
edition of Shakespeare's plays, 
usually known as the First Folio. 
It was set forth by John Ilerninge 
and Henry Condcll, Shakespeare's 
fellow-actors. It contains thirty- 
six plays (all the canonical plays 
except Pericles), twenty of which 
appeared in print for the first 
time. Over one hundred and 
eighty copies of the First Folio 
survive, but only fourteen arc in 
a quite perfect state. The Second 
Folio (1632) is a reprint of the 
First, and makes a few alterations, 
many of which arc for the worse. 

The Third Folio (1663 and ,1664) 
is mainly u reprint of the Second; 
the 1664 impression contains Pm- 
c/cs anil six paeiiclo-Sliakespearcan 
plays. The Fourth, Folio (1685) is 
a reprint; of the 1664 impression of 
(he Third. 

Drytlen was one of the best as 
he was one of the earliest Shake- 
spearean critics. The first, critical 
editor was the Poet: Laureate 
Nicholas Rowc, who in his edition 
of 1709 corrected some of the most 
palpable errors, and gathered to- 
gether some fads and legends 
about Shakespeare's life. \Pope 
(1725), and Theobald (1733) made 
some happy and some unnecessary 
emendations- Haunter ((,74.},) did 
not contribute much, to Shake- 
spearean scholarship, nor did War- 
burton, who reissued Pope's edition 
with many notes of his own in 
1747. I)r, Johnson's edition (1765) 
is chiefly famous for its preface, 
an embodiment; of sound common 
sense, Capell's edition (1,768) is 
the work of a thorough but not: 
superficially attractive scholar. 
Steevens, who reissued Johnson's 
edition in 1773, was Clever but 
unstable; JVIalonc, his rival (1790), 
was a sound antiquarian. Variorum 
editions embodying the work of 
Johnson, Steevens, and Malone 
appeared under the editorship of 
Reed in 1803 and 1813, and under 
the editorship of James Boswcll 
(the younger) in 1821, In the early 
part of the nineteenth century a 
new era in Shakespearean criticism 
was opened up by Coleridge, 
Sehlegel, Ilasclitt, and Lamb. Cole- 
ridge, though not the most reliable, 
is perhaps the most inspired of 
Shakespearean critics. His tradi- 
tion was carried on at a later date 
by Swinburne, who is an excellent 



H A M L E T, Prince of Dcnmarke. 


c. fclm- Trimus. Scocna 


two ( 'fntinc/t. 

Jo's there i 

. Nay anfvvcr me : Stand 

ttxr. He. 

Ff.vt, You i omcmoft: csrefulk vpoii vour hourc, 
jRttr.' fi* n.v,v ftrook rvveluc.get thcc to bed irMcifi-o. 
Frwtt Foi this rdectc much ilJSLikei; Tisbiuct cold. 


And T 3*11 lu'kc ,;c -' t. 

Wr. i laise ; 'Vi hail quiet Guard ? 

FMW r "JoriMoi fecund;]. 

"B^'-i, Well, v'OoJ,i,i''iu. if you; do meet f7or>it(e and 

" ," ^i i j " 

.'Iftir>etiiu 3 the ll, in 1 ' of my Wai'.h,bul them make tuft. 

jKrvcs. I tii' i'-r i iicaic :bcni. Stand ; who'i there ? 

/'i>*\ :*ncn!* f,o dm ground. 

,1 Air. And LciLjc-nun to the Dane, 

/',M. Cjinc you good nif;lic, 

7>L(. O farwcl honcft Soldier, who hatii rclteu'd you? 

JV-*, 'Sttrfwdi h;i't my place: giueyou i;oodni^hc. 

'3'4r, Say/.'vhat n//rvi^ there " 

/fijr. A pccn* of him. 

*J?.r. \V elcomc UMJtia, welcome good 

j!', . I haue Icene nothinr;. 

And will no: !cr bclccfc take hold ofhim 
Toiithnin thsii drcndcvl light, twice fecnc of \s t 
"Thcr( tu'C 1 luue irtrcate.'l him along 
IVkh vs, tow.itclulrminiic.s of this Night, 
Thar. f.'.jainc this Apparition come, 
1 !cmy fipprouc oir ryes, and Ipcukc to it. 

/fiT, T.jfi^tufl ,\ will not appeare* 

/M;", Sit do\vi., a. while, 
And Icr. v! onccatjnincnfTaiic your caret, 
That arc fu rurtificd c g.iinft our Story, 
".Vh.ic we two Nighti !uuc fecnc* 

liar IVc'd.fu we downe, 
And let T.I hcarc V?(frr;^'ii? fp cake of this. 

VAtj'n. L,\ft night of all, 

When y end fame Starrc that'* Wcftward from the Pole 
Ma J ma tic his coaric tMlume that past ot'Hcaucu 

\VIiere now u burnei , MuriellMt and my fclfc 
The Dell then bcatij/.'-oiif. ' 

cn/"<r. Pc3cc,lv-'akr thcc of , n tn f A, 

Lonke where it cor ej, againc. 

Sam. In the fame figure, like the Kin ( ; that's dead 
'^, jr . Thou 05 1 a Scholln; Ij.rakctoir ///,/.. 
. Loolccsu not like the Knif;? Marked ItorMio 
>.r. Moftlikc h Juurovx-uiK \vitl>fear^ womlc'r 
ft would ' 

liMM. it would be jpoKc too. 

ll.r. WlucarciSvju that vlurp'rtiltK time of nirtlir 
Aether with diaiFaire and Wnildcr forme * ' 


, In which the Maielly of buried De ,. 
Did lomrt lines nnrrh , 15 y Hcaucn 1 

* f b i m" _ . * 

/>' trrr, Src,u ilolkri nway. 

//. Stay Ji'rahcjlpeikc;! Charge thec/pralfc. 

t --' - .. v y i WUff ( k 

yt/.tr. Tis ^onejtind willnoranfvvcr. 

jj4r How now //w.rrw ? You ticmble fc ?ook pale 
h nut tins fomeclunij more then Fantaf.e ? 
What tlnnkc you cn'ti 1 

^Wr. Bctorc my God, I might not thisbclecuc 
Without the fcufiblc and trucV.ur>uch 

M>tr. Isttnotlikctl,eKin{? 1 

Har f As tliou art to ih;' fclrc, 
S^ch w.Til e vc.y A*'niou, Ivhud on 
\\ hen t!i'Amh;nous Xorvvcv combatied: 
So frown'd he once, whet^jn an anqry panic 
He Iniot thtllcddtd I J ollax on the Ue. 
'fit (Iranfje. 

jVrf/ 1 . Tbusc wire bcfore,nnd iuftat this dead hourc 
\Vith Mjrcisil Iblkc, hsth he gone by our Watch. ' 

//r.[n what particular thought to work,! know not : in the groife and icope of my Opinion, 
Th bottles feme ttrange crruption to our State. 

Mxr* Good now lit doyvnc^ tell me he that knowcs 
Why thii fame ftruft and mo ft Watch 
Somghrly toylesthc fubicilof the Land, * 
And why fuchdaylyCaft of Biazon Cannon 
And Forraigne Marc for Implements ofwarrc; 
Why fuch imprefle of Ship-wrights, whole fore T^ske 
Do'i not diuidc the Sunday from the wctkc . 
Whir might be toward, ihat this fwcatyhaA 
Doth nuke the Nijjhcjoynt-Ubourcr with the day : 
Whois'tthaicaninforDjcmc? . 

At ; 




critic, though sometimes most em- 
phatic where his case is weakest. 
The editions of Singer, Collier, 
Knight, IlalHweH, Dyce, and 
Stauuton all contribute something 
to our knowledge of Shakespeare. 
The Cambridge edition of Clark 
and Wright presents a sound text, 
but: its critical apparatus resembles 
an unweeded garden. A new 
Variorum edition was undertaken 
by II. Howard Furncss of Phila- 
delphia, who edited fifteen plays 
between iSyt and his death in 
191:2; his son is carrying on the 
task. Each volume of this edition 
is u library in itself. Other editions 
arc too numerous to mention, but 
the following may be singled out 
as important: DowJcn, Craig, and 
Case, The Anlcn Shakespeare (1899- 
1918), and Sir Arthur Quiiler- 
Couch and J. J). Wilson, The New 
Shakes/ware (begun in 1921), 

Those who read to eontn 
and confute will perhaps endeavour 
to make themselves masters of a 
section or two of the vast library 
which has gathered round Shake- 
speare and his works. A small 
selection will satisfy those whom 
studies serve for delight. The 
ordinary reader will find almost all 
the help he requires in the follow- 
ing books: Sir Sidney Lee, A Life 

of William Shakespeare (the stan- 
dard biography); F. J. Furmvall 
and J. Munro, Shakespeare: Life 
and Work; Dr. Johnson, Essays 
and Notes on Shakespeare (edited 
by Sir W. Raleigh); S. T. Cole- 
ridge, Notes and Lectures on Shake- 
sfyeare; W. Hazlitt, Characters of 
Shakespeare 9 s Plays; E. Dowclen, 
Shakspcre: a Critical Study of his 
Mind and Art; A Shakspere Primer; 
Introduction to Shakespeare] Sir 
Walter Raleigh, Shakespeare (Eng- 
lish Men of Letters Series); A. C. 
Bradley, Shakespearean Tragedy; 
Oxford Lectures on Poetry; A. C. 
Swinburne, A Study of Shake- 
speare; J. Churton Collins, Studies 
in Shakespeare; B. Wendell, Wil- 
liam Shakespeare: a Study in 
Elizabethan Literature; G. Brandes, 
William Shakespeare; G. P. Baker, 
The Development of Shakespeare as 
a Dramatist; D. H. Madden, The 
Diary of Master William Silence; 
Sir A. T. Quiller-Couch, Shake- 
speare's Workmanship; various con- 
tributors, Shakespeare 9 s England; 
Sir E. K. Chambers, William 
Shakespeare, a Study of Facts and 
Problems; Shakespeare: a Survey; 
J. Bartlett, Concordance to Shake- 
speare; R, J. Cunliffe, A New 
Shakespearean Dictionary; E. A. 
Abbott, A Shakesperian Grammar, 

From "Venus and Adonis" 

This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy, 
This canker that cats up Love's tender spring, 

This carry-tale, dissentious Jealousy, 
That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring, 

Knocks at my heart and whispers in mine car 

That if I love thee, I thy death should fear: 

And more than so, presenteth to mine eye 
The picture of an angry-chafing boar, 


Under whose sharp fangs on life hack doth lie 
An intake like thyself, all stain M with gore; 
Whose 1)lo()d upon the fresh llowers being sited 
Doth make them droop \vith grief and Imng the head* 

'What should 1 do, seeing thee so indeed, 

That tremhle at the imagination? 
The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed, 

And fear doth touch it: divination; 
1 prophesy thy death, my living sorrow. 
If thou encounter with the hoar to-morrow, 

But if thou needs wilt hunt, he ruled, hy me; 

Uncouple at; the timorous Hying hare, 
Or at the fox which, lives hy subtlety, 

Or at the roe which no encounter dare: 
Pursue these fearful creatures oVr the downs, 
And on thy well-breath \l horse keep with thy hounds, 

And when thou hast; on foot the purblind hare, 
Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles 

I low he outruns the wind and with what '"ire 
lie cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles: 

The many musets through the which he goes 

Arc like <t labyrinth to amaze his foes. 

Sometime he runs among a Hock of sheep, 
To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell, 

And sometime where earth-delving comes keep, 
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell, 

And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer: 

Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear: 

For there his smell with others being mingled, 
The hot sceut-snufllng hounds are driven to doubt, 

Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled 
With much ado the cold fault cleanly out; 

Then do they spend their mouths: Kcho replies, 

As if another chase were in the skies, 

By this, poor Wat, far oif upon a hill, 
Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear, 

To hearken if his foes pursue him still; 
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear; 


And now his grief may be -compared well 
To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell. 

Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch 

Turn, and return, indenting with the way; 
Each envious brier his weary legs doth scratch, 

Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay: 
For misery is trodden on by many, 
And being low never relieved by any. 

(Lines 655-708.) 

From "Lucrece" 

O Opportunity, thy guilt is great! 

'Tis thou that executest the traitor's treason: 
Thou sett'st the wolf where he the lamb may get; 

Whoever plots the sin, thou 'point 'st the season; 

'Tis thou that spurn 'st at right, at law, at reason; 
And in thy shady cell, where none may spy him, 
Sits Sin, to seize the souls that wander by him. 

Thou makest the vestal violate her oath; 

Thou blow'st the fire when temperance is thaw'd; 
Thou smother J st honesty, thou murder 'st troth; 

Thou foul abettor! thou notorious bawd! 

Thou plantest scandal and displacest laud: 
Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief, 
Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief! 

Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame, 

Thy private feasting to a public fast, 
Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name, 

Thy sugar 'd tongue to bitter wormwood taste: 

Thy violent vanities can never last. 
How comes it then, vile Opportunity, 
Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee? 

When wilt thou be the humble suppliant's friend, 
And bring him where his suit may be obtained? 

When wilt thou sort an hour great strifes to end? 
Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chain 'd? 
Give physic to the sick, ease to the pain'd? 

The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee; 

But they ne'er meet with Opportunity. 

IL 33 


The patient, dies while the physician sleeps; 

The orphan pines while the oppressor feeds; 
Justice Is feasting while the widow weeps; 

Advice Is sporting while infection breeds; 

Thou grant's!; no time for charitable deeds: 
Wrath, envy, treason, rape, and murder's rages, 
Thy heinous hours wait on them as their pages. 

When Truth and Virtue have to do with thee, 
A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid: 

They buy thy help; but Sin ne'er gives a fee, 
lie gratis comes; and them art well appaid 
As well to hear as grant what he hath said. 

My Colhuinc would else have eome to me 

When Tarquin did, but he was stay VI by thee. 

(Lines 876 



Shall 1 compare thee to a summer's day? 

Thou art more lovely and more temperate: 
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 

And summer's lease hath all too short n date: 
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 

And often is his gold complexion dimmVl; 
And every fair from fair sometime declines. 

By chance or nature's changing course untrinmiVI; 
But thy eternal summer shall not fade 

Nor lose possession of that fair thoxi owcst; 
Nor shall Death brag thou wander J st in his shade, 

When in eternal lines to time thou growcst: 
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, 
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee 


When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 

I all alone bcweep my outcast state, 
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, 

And look upon myself and curse my fate, 
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 

Featured like him, like him with friends possess VI, 


Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, 
With what I most enjoy contented least; 

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, 
Haply I think on thee, and then my state, 

Like to the lark at break of day arising 

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; 

For thy sweet love remember 'd such wealth brings 

That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 


When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 

I summon up remembrance of things past, 
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, 

And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: 
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, 
And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe, 

And moan the expense of many a vanish J d sight; 
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, 

And heavily from woe to woe tell o 'er 
The sad account of fore -bemoaned moan, 

Which I new pay as if not paid before, 
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, 
All losses are restored and sorrows end. 


Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, 

But sad mortality o'er-sways their power, 
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, 

Whose action is no stronger than a flower? 
0, how shall summer's honey breath hold out 

Against the wreckful siege of battering days, 
When rocks impregnable are not so stout, 

Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays? 
O fearful meditation! where, alack, 

Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? 
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? 

Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? 
O, none, unless this miracle have might, 
That in black ink my love may still shine bright. 



That time of year thou mnyst in me behold 

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hung 
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, 

Bare ruinM choirs, where late the sweet birds sa 
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day 

As after sunset faclcth in the west. 
Which by and by black night doth take away, 

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. 
In me thou scc'st the glowing of such fire 

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, 
As the death-bed whereon it must expire 

Consumed with that which it was nourish M by, 
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, 
To love that well which thou must leave ere long. 


From you have I been absent in the spring, 

When proud-pied April dress 'd in all his trim 
I lath put a spirit of youth in every thing, 

That heavy Saturn laugh U and leaped with him, 
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet; smell 

Of different flowers in odour and in hue 
Could make me any summer's story tell, 

Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew; 
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, 

Nor praise the deep vermilion In the rose; 
They were but sweet, but figures of delight. 

Drawn after you, you pattern of all those, 
Yet secmtt it winter still, and, you away, 
As with your shadow I with these did play: 


The forward violet thus did I chide: 

Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, 
If not from my love's breath? The purple pride 

Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells 
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. 
The lily I condemned for thy hand, 

And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair: 


The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, 

One blushing shame, another white despair; 
A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both 

And to his robbery had annex 'd thy breath; 
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth 

A vengeful canker eat him up to death. 
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see 
But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee. 


Let me not to the marriage of true minds 

Admit impediments. Love is not love 
Which alters when it alteration finds, 

Or bends with the remover to remove : 
O, no ! it is an ever-fixed mark 

That looks on tempests and is never shaken; 
It is the star to every wandering bark, 

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. 
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 

Within his bending sickle's compass come; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 

But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 
If this be error and upon me proved, 
I never writ, nor no man ever loved . 


The expense of spirit in a waste of shame 

Is lust in action; and till action, lust 
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, 

Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust; 
Enjoy 'd no sooner but despised straight, 

Past reason hunted, and no sooner had, 
Past reason hated, as a swallow 'd bait 

On purpose laid to make the taker mad; 
Mad in pursuit and in possession so ; 

Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme; 
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe; 

Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream. 
All this the world well knows ; yet none knows well 
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell . 


Titania's Lullaby 

You spotted snakes with double tongue, 

Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; 
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong, 

Come not near our fairy queen. 

Philomel, with melody, 

Sing in our sweet lullaby; 
Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lullu, lullaby: 
Never harm, 
Nor spell nor charm, 

Come our lovely lady nigh; 

So, good night, with lullaby. 

Weaving spiders, come not here; 

Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence! 
Beetles black, approach not near; 

Worm nor snail, do no o Hence. 

Philomel, with melody, etc. 

Balthazar's Song 

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, 

Men were deceivers ever, 
One foot in sea and one on shore, 

To one thing constant never: 
Then sigh not so, but let them go, 

And be you blithe and bonny, 
Converting all your sounds of woe 

Into Iley nanny, nonny. 

Sing no more ditties, sing no moc, 
Of dumps so dull and heavy; 

The fraud of men was ever so, 
Since summer first was leavy: 

Then sigh not so, etc. 


Feste's Song 

O mistress mine, where are you roaming? 
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming, 

That can sing both high and low: 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting; 
Journeys end in lovers meeting, 

Every wise man 's son doth know. 

What is love? 'tis not hereafter; 
Present mirth hath present laughter; 

What's to come is still unsure: 
In delay there lies no plenty; 
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, 

Youth's a stuff will not endure. 

Ariel's Songs 

Come unto these yellow sands, 

And then take hands: 
Courtsied when you have and kiss M 

The wild waves whist, 
Foot it featly here and there; 
And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear, 

Burthen (dispersedly). Hark, hark! 

The watch -dogs bark: 

Hark, hark! I hear 
The strain of strutting chanticleer 
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow. 

: K S 'X? : K< vr 

Full fathom five thy father lies; 

Of his bones are coral made; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes : 

Nothing of him that doth fade 
But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange. 
Sea- nymphs hourly ring his knell: 

Burthen. Ding-dong. 

Hark! now I hear them, Ding-dong, bell. 


Love's Labour's Lost 


Learning is but an adjunct to out-self 

And where we arc our learning likewise is: 

Then when ourselves we sec In ladies' eyes, 

Do we not likewise sec our learning there? 

O, we have made a vow to study, lords, 

And in that vow we have forsworn, our books. 

For when would you, my liege, or you, or you, 

In leaden contemplation have found out 

Such fiery numbers as the prompting eyes 

Of beauty's tutors have enrich M you with? 

Other slow arts entirely keep the brain; 

And therefore, finding barren practiscrs, 

Scarce show a harvest of their heavy toil: 

But love, first learned in a lady's eyes, 

Lives not alone immured in the brain; 

But, with the motion of all elements, 

Courses as swift as thought in every power, 

And gives to every power a double power, 

Above their functions and their olliccs. 

It adds a precious seeing to the eye; 

A lover's eyes will gaze an eagle blind; 

A lover's car will hear the lowest sound, 

When the suspicious head of theft is stopp'd: 

Love's feeling is more soft and sensible 

Than are the tender horns of cockled snails; 

Love's tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste; 

For valour, is not Love a Hercules, 

Still climbing trees in the llcspendes? 

Subtle as Sphinx; as sweet and musical 

As bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair; 

And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods 

JL " VH* 

Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony. 
Never durst poet touch a pen to write 
Until his ink were temper 'd with Love's sighs; 
0, then his lines would ravish savage ears 
And plant in tyrants mild humility. 
From women's eyes this doctrine I derive: 
They sparkle still the right Promethean lire; 
They are the books, the arts, the academes, 
That show, contain and nourish all the world: 


Else none at all in aught proves excellent. 
Then fools you were these women to forswear, 
Or keeping what is sworn, you will prove fools. 
For wisdom's sake, a word that all men love, 
Or for love's sake, a word that loves all men, 
Or for men's sake, the authors of these women, 
Or women's sake, by whom we men are men, 
Let us once lose our oaths to find ourselves, 
Or else we lose ourselves to keep our oaths. 
It is religion to be thus forsworn, 
For chanty itself fulfils the law, 
And who can sever love from charity? 

(Act IV, Sc. 3, lines 314-365.) 

A Midsummer-Night's Dream 

MUSTARDSEED, and other Fairies attending ; OBERON behind unseen.} 


Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed, 
While I thy amiable cheeks do coy, 
And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head, 
And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy. 

Where's Peaseblossom? 


Scratch my head, Peaseblossom. Where's Mounsieur Cobweb? 



Mounsieur Cobweb, good mounsieur, get you your weapons in your 
.nd, and kill me a red-hipped humble-bee on the top of a thistle; and 
3d mounsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much 

the action, mounsieur; and, good mounsieur, have a care the honey- 


bag break not; I would be loath to have you overflown with a honey-bag, 
signior. Where's Mounsicur Must aniseed? 




Give me your ncaf, Mounsicur Mustardseecl, Pray you, leave your 
courtesy, good moimsieur, 


What's your will? 


Nothing, good mounsicur, but to help Cuvalcry Cobweb to scratch, 
I must to the barber's, mounsicur; for methinks I am marvellous hairy 
about the face; and I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, 
I must scratch. 

What, wilt them hear some music, my sweet love? 


I have a reasonable good ear in music. Let's have the tongs and the 

Or say, sweet love, what thou dcsircst to cat, 


Truly, a peck of provender: I could munch your good dry oats. Me- 
thinks I have a great desire to a bottle of hay; good hay, sweet hay, hath 
no fellow. 


I have a venturous fairy that shall seek 

The squirrel's hoard, and fetch thce new nuts. 


I had rather have a handful or two of dried peas. But, I pray you, 
let none of your people stir me: I have an exposition of sleep come upon 



Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms. 

Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away. [Exeunt fairies. 

(Act IV, Sc. i, lines 1-44.) 

Romeo and Juliet 



How oft when men are at the point of death 
Have they been merry! which their keepers call 
A lightning before death: O, how may I 
Call this a lightning? O, my love! my wife! 
Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath, 
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty: 
Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet 
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, 
And death's pale flag is not advanced there. 
Tybalt, licst thou there in thy bloody sheet? 
O, what more favour can I do to thee, 
Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain 
To sunder his that was thine enemy? 
Forgive me, cousin! Ah, dear Juliet, 
Why art thou yet so fair? shall I believe 
That unsubstantial death is amorous, 
And that the lean abhorred monster keeps 
Thee here in dark to be his paramour? 
For fear of that, I still will stay with thee; 
And never from this palace of dim night 
Depart again: here, here will I remain 
With worms that are thy chamber-maids; 0, here 
Will I set up my everlasting rest, 
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars 
From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last! 
Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you 
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss 
A dateless bargain to engrossing death! 
Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide! 
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on 
The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark! 
Here's to my love! [Drinks.] true apothecary! 
Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die. [Dies. 

(Act V, Sc. 3, lines 88-120.) 

The Merchant of Venice 

Belmont. Avenue to Portia's house. 


The moon shines bright: in such a niglxt as this, 
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees 
And they did make no noisse, in. such a night 
Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls 
And sigli'd his soul toward the Grecian touts, 
Where Crcssid lay that night. 


In such a night 

Did Thisbc fearfully o'ertrip the dew 
And saw the lion's shadow ere himself 
And ran dismay 'd away. 


In such a night: 

Stood Dido with a willow in her hand 
Upon the wild sen banks and waft; her love 
To come again to Carthage. 


In such a night 

Medea gather 'cl the enchanted herbs 
That did renew old Aeson. 


In such a night 

Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew 
And with an unthrift love did run from Venice 
As far as Bclmont. 


In such a night 

Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well, 
Stealing her soul with many vows of faith 
And ne'er u true one. 



In such a night 

Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, 
Slander her love, and he forgave it her. 


I would out-night you, did no body come; 
But, hark, I hear the footing of a man. 

(Act V, Sc. i, lines 1-24.) 

Second Part of King Henry IV 

You follow the young prince up and down, like his ill angel. 


Not so, my lord; your ill angel is light; but I hope he that looks 
upon me will take me without weighing: and yet, in some respects, 
I grant, I cannot go: I cannot tell. Virtue is of so little regard in these 
costermonger times that true valour is turned bear-herd: pregnancy is 
made a tapster, and hath his quick wit wasted in giving reckonings: all 
the other gifts appertinent to man, as the malice of this age shapes them, 
are not worth a gooseberry. You that are old consider not the capacities 
of us that are young; you do measure the heat of our livers with the 
bitterness of your galls: and we that are in the vaward of our youth, I 
must confess, are wags too. 


Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth, that are written 
down old with all the characters of age? Have you not a moist eye? a 
dry hand? a yellow cheek? a white beard? a decreasing leg? an in- 
creasing belly? is not your voice broken? your wind short? your chin 
double? your wit single? and every part about you blasted with antiquity? 
and will you call yourself young? Fie, fie, fie, Sir John! 


My lord, I was born about three of the clock in the afternoon, with 
a white head and something a round belly. For my voice, I have lost 
it with halloing and singing of anthems. To approve my youth further, 
I will not,- the truth is, I am only old in judgement and understanding; 


and lie that will caper with me for a thousand marks, let him lend me 
the money, and have at him! .For the box of the ear that the prince gave 
you, he gave it like a rude prince, and you took it like a sensible lord. 
I have checked him for it, and the young lion repents; marry, not in 
ashes and sackcloth, but in new silk and old sack, 

Well, God send the prince a better companion! 


God send the companion a better prince! [ cannot rid my hands 
of him, 

(Ac I /, ,SV, 2, tines 185-226.) 

"ulius Caesar 

* ( 


Be patient till the last. 

Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear trie for my cause, and be 
silent, that you may hear: believe me for mine honour, and have respect 
to mine honour, that you may believe: censure me in your wisdom, 
and awake your senses, that you may the bettor judge. .If there be any 
in this assembly, any dear friend of Cesar's, to him I say, that: Brutus' 
love to Cajsur was no less than his. If then that friend demand why 
Brutus rose against Cicsar, this is my answer; Not that I loved Caisar 
less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Ciesar were living 
and die all slaves, than that Ciusar were dead, to live all free men? As 
Cassar loved me, 1 weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; 
as he was valiant, I honour him: but, as lie was ambitious, I slew him. 
There is tears for his love; joy for his fortune; honour for his valour; 
and death for his ambition. Who is here so base that would be a bond- 
man? If any, speak; for him have 1 offended. Who is here so rude that 
would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who 
is here so vile that will not love his country? If any, sp^ak; for him have 
I offended, T pause for a reply. 

None, Brutus, none. 


Then none have I offended, I have clone no more to Cxsar than 
you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the 


Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy, nor his offences 
enforced, for which he suffered death. 

(Enter ANTONY and others,, with Ceesar's body.) 

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony: who, though he 
had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place 
in the commonwealth; as which of you shall not? With this I depart, 
that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger 
for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death. 

Live, Brutus! live, live. 

Bring him with triumph home unto his house. 

Give him a statue with his ancestors. 

Let him be Caesar. 


Caesar's better parts 
Shall be crown 'd in Brutus. 


We '11 bring him to his house 
With shouts and clamours. 

My countrymen, 

Peace, silence! Brutus speaks. 


Peace, ho! 



Good countrymen, let me depart alone, 

And, for my sake, stay here with Antony: 

Do grace to Ciusar's corpse, and grace his spocTh 

Tending to Cxsar's glories; which Mark Antony, 

By our permission, is allow 'd to make. 

[ do entreat yon, not u man depart, 

Save I alone, till Antony have spoke, 

(Ac/: ///, Mr. 2, ff/ics 12-66.) 



In the most high and palmy state of Rome, 

A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, 

The graves stood tenantlcss and the sheeted dead 

Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets; 

As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, 

Disasters in the sun; and the moist star 

Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands 

Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse: 

And even the like precurse of fierce events, 

As harbingers preceding still the fates 

And prologue to the omen eoming on, 

Have heaven and earth together demonstrated 

Unto our chmatures and countrymen. 

But soft, behold! lo, where it comes again! 

(Re-enter Ghost,) 

111 cross it, though it blast me. Stay, illusion! 

If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, 

Speak to me : 

If there be any good thing to be done, 

That may to thcc do ease and grace to me, 

Speak to me: [Cock erow$> 

If thou art privy to thy country's fate, 

Which, happily, foreknowing may avoid, 

O, speak! 

Or if thou hast uphoartled in thy life 

Extorted treasure in the womb of earth, 

For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death, 

Speak of it; stay, and speak! Stop it, Marccllus. 


fhe. Trageclie of 






flttd Fr&wifcojw Qmtf 

Ho fe there? 

Nu,- anf'.vcrtne.' ^tandand vafoldyotir 

Long!' ' " 


Fran m 'Yoirctfrnc me ft carefully vpon your I core 
Ba ". Tis .no^ftrookc tvv clue,uct thee 10 bed F; 
Fr*/w. For this reliefc much tiunk^us bitter cold 
And lam fkkat heart. 
'. Not a Moufe flirting. 

, . 

If y o u doc mcctc.H^r^jfa and Marcellus, 
Ihcriualsof my watch ,bid th mmalcchaft* 

w/^r \ioratia and Mar$e UHS*. . 

I thinkc I 'hcarc ihcna.fland ho.vvhoii there? 


. Friends to this gTdund. 

And LeegemcntofiheDanc, 
, Glue you good night* 

O/a'rcwcll honcftYouldiers^ho hath rclkiuJ you ? 

ray place; giu.c you good nigh^ Ext 

B '* V 


This should ho compared with the same page from the First Folio (1623) 


Shall I strike at it with my partisan? 

Do, if it will not stand. 




'Tis gone ! [Exit Ghost. 

We do it wrong, being so majestical, 

To offer it the show of violence ; 

For it is, as the air, invulnerable, 

And our vain blows malicious mockery. 

It was about to speak, when the cock crew. 


And then it started like a guilty thing 
Upon a fearful summons. I have heard, 
The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, 
Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat 
Awake the god of day; and, at his warning, 
Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, 
The extravagant and erring spirit hies 
To his confine: and of the truth herein 
This present object made probation. 


It faded on the crowing of the cock. 
Some say that ever 'gainst that season conies 
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
The bird of dawning singeth all night long: 
And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad; 
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike, 
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, 
So hallow 'd and so gracious is the time. 

i. II. 34 



So have I heard and do in part helievc it. 
But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, 
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill: 
Break we our watch up; and by my advice, 
Let us impart what we have seen to-night 
Unto young Hamlet; for, upon my life, 
This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him. 
Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it, 
As needful in our loves, fitting our duty? 


Let's do't, I pray; and I this morning know 

Where we shall find him most conveniently, [Exeunt, 

(Act I, Sc. T, lines 



Soft you; a word or two before you go, 

I have done the state some service, and they kaow't. 

No more of that. I pray you, in your letters, 

When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, 

Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, 

Nor set down aught in malice: then must you speak 

Of one that loved not wisely but too well; 

Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought 

Perplex'd in the extreme; of one whose hand, 

Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away 

Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdued eyes, 

Albeit unused to the melting mood, 

Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees 

Their medicinal gum. Set you down this; 

And say besides, that in Aleppo once, 

Where a malignant and a turban *d Turk 

Beat a Venetian and traduced the state, 

I took by the throat the circumcised dog, 

And smote him, thus, [Stabs himself. 

(Act F, Sc. 2, t/ncs 338-356.) 


King Lear 


O, reason not the need: our basest beggars 

Are in the poorest thing superfluous : 

Allow not nature more than nature needs, 

Man's life's as cheap as beast's: thou art a lady; 

If only to go warm were gorgeous, 

Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st, 

Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need, 

You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need! 

You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, 

As full of grief as age; wretched in both! 

If it be you that stir these daughters ' hearts 

Against their father, fool me not so much 

To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger, 

And let not women's weapons, water-drops, 

Stain my man's cheeks! No, you unnatural hags, 

I will have such revenges on you both, 

That all the world shall I will do such things, 

What they are, yet I know not; but they shall be 

The terrors of the earth. You think I'll weep; 

No, I'll not weep: 

I have full cause of weeping; but this heart 

Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws, 

Or ere I'll weep. O fool, I shall go mad! 

(Act II, Sc. 4, lines 267-289.) 


(Enter PERICLES, on shipboard.) 


Thou god of this great vast, rebuke these surges, 
Which wash both heaven and hell; and thou, that hast 
Upon the winds command, bind them in brass, 
Having call'd them from the deep! O, still 
Thy deafening, dreadful thunders; gently quench 
Thy nimble, sulphurous flashes! O, how, Lychorida, 
How does my queen? Thou stormest venomously; 


Wilt thou spit nil thyself? The seaman's whistle 

Is as a whisper in the cars of death, 

Unheard. Lychcmda! Lucina, O 

Divinest patroness, and midwife gentle 

To those that cry by night, convey thy deity 

Aboard our dancing boat; make swift the pangs 

Of my qxiccn's travails! 

(Enter LYCHORIDA, with an fit /tint.) 

Now, Lychoricla! 


Here is a thing too young for such a place, 
Who, if it had conceit, would die, as I 
Am like to do: take in your arms this piece 
Of your dead queen , 

How, how, Lychorida! 


Patience, good sir; do not assist the storm. 
Here's all that is left living of your queen, 
A little daughter: for the sake of it, 
Be manly, and take comfort. 


you gods! 

Why do you make us love your goodly gifts, 
And snatch them straight away? We here below 
Recall not what we give, and therein may 
Use honour with you. 


Patience, good sir, 
Even for this charge. 


Now> mild may be thy life! 
For a more blustrous birth had never babe; 
Quiet and gentle thy conditions! for 


Thou art the ruddiest welcome to this world 
That ever was prince's child. Happy what follows! 
Thou hast as chiding a nativity 
As fire, air, water, earth, and heaven can make, 
To herald thee from the womb ; even at the first 
Thy loss is more than can thy portage quit, 
With all thou canst find here. Now, the good gods 
Throw their best eyes upon't! 

(Act III, Sc. i, lines 1-37.) 

The Winter's Tale 


Now, my fair'st friend, 

I would I had some flowers o* the spring that might 
Become your time of day; and yours, and yours, 
That wear upon your virgin branches yet 
Your maidenheads growing: O Proserpina, 
For the flowers now, that frighted thou let'st fall 
From Dis 's waggon ! daffodils, 
That come before the swallow dares, and take 
The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, 
But sweeter than the lids of Juno J s eyes 
Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses, 
That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
Bright Phoebus in his strength a malady 
Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and 
The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, 
The flower-de-luce being one! O, these I lack, 
To make you garlands of, and my sweet friend, 
To strew him o'er and o'er! 


What, like a corse? 


No, like a bank for love to lie and play on; 

Not like a corse; or if, not to be buried, 

But quick and in mine arms. Come, take your flower 

Methinks I play as I have seen them do 

In Whitsun pastorals: sure this robe of mine 

Does change my disposition. 



What you do 

Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, 
I 'Id have you do it ever: when you sing, 
Fid have you buy and sell so, so give alms, 
Pray so; and, for the ordering your alTaiis, 
To sing them too: when you dance, I wish, you 
A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do 
Nothing hut that; move still, still so, 
And own no other function; each your doing, 
So singular In each particular, 
Crowns what you are doing in the present deed, 
That all your acts arc queens, 



Your praises are too large: but that your youth, 
And the true blood which pcepeth fairly through 't, 
Do plainly give you out an unstain'd shepherd, 
With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles, 
You woo'd me the false way. 


I think you have 

As little skill to fear as I have purpose 
To put you to *t. But come; our dance, I pray: 
Your hand, my Pcrdita: so turtles pair, 
That never mean to part. 


Fll swear for 'em, 


This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever 
Ran on. the grecn-swarci: nothing she does or seems 
But smacks of something greater than herself; 
Too noble for this place. 


He tells her something 

That makes her blood look out: good sooth, she is 
The queen of curds and cream. 

(Act IV, Sc. 4, lines 112-161.) 


The Tempest 


(Aside) I had forgot that foul conspiracy 

Of the beast Caliban and his confederates 

Against my life: the minute of their plot 

Is almost come. (To the Spirits) Well done! avoid; no more! 


This is strange: your father's in some passion 
That works him strongly. 


Never till this day 
Saw I him touch 'd with anger so distemper'd. 


You do look, my son, in a moved sort, 

As if you were dismay'd: be cheerful, sir. 

Our revels now are ended. These our actors, 

As I foretold you, were all spirits and 

Are melted into air, into thin air: 

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, 

The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, 

The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve 

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff 

As dreams are made on, and our little life 

Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex'd; 

Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled: 

Be not disturb 'd with my infirmity: 

If you be pleased, retire into my cell 

And there repose: a turn or two 111 walk, 

To still my beating mind. 

We wish your peace. [Exeunt. 

(Act IV, Sc. i, lines 139-163.) 




A BODY of writings at least as large 
as his genuine works has, at one 
time or another, been attributed to 
Shakespeare. Some of these attri- 
butions have been made on the 
slenderest grounds, by critics, 
British and foreign, who have been 
unable to distinguish between what 
is Shakespearean and what is 
merely Elizabethan. It will not be 
necessary to mention here some 
wild surmises which credit Shake- 
speare with the authorship of 
certain plays which would be un- 
worthy even of George Wilkins. 
There are, however, some fifteen 
plays which have long been con- 
nected in some way or other with 
the name of Shakespeare; five of 
these have been claimed by dis- 
tinguished scholars as in whole or 
in part the work of Shakespeare. 
These fifteen plays arc often spoken 
of as " the Slaakespeare Apoc- 
rypha "; like their biblical counter- 
part, they may be read for example 
of (contemporary) life and instruc- 
tion, of manners; but they do not 
establish any doctrine about the 
mind and art of Shakespeare, 

Seven plays not in the First- 
Folio were published as Shake- 
speare's in his lifetime, and were 
included in the second impression 
of the Third Folio in 1664, These 
seven plays are: Pericles, which 
is almost universally accepted as 
canonical, is always printed in 
Shakespeare's collected works, and 
therefore does not rank as apocry- 
phal; Locrine (1595), possibly by 
Kyd; Thomas, Lord Cromwell ( 1 602) , 
a very poor play; The London 
Prodigal (1605); The Puritan 
Widow (1607), perhaps by Middle- 

ton; Sir John Oldcastle (1600)* 
almost certainly by Munday, Dray- 
ton, Wilson, and Jlathwaye; and 
A Yorkshire Tragedy (1608), a 
powerful but sordid play not in 
Shakespeare's later style (twenty- 
five per cent of it is rhymed), and 
describing an event which hap- 
pened in 1605. Of these seven 
plays, if we set aside Pericles as 
certainly Shakespeare's in part, 
only A Yorkshire Tragedy has been 
accepted as genuine by a few 
competent authorities* 

Three plays have been attributed 
to Shakespeare merely because 
they were bound together in a 
volume in Charles ll's library and 
labelled u Shakespeare ". These 


three may be at once dismissed 
as non-Shakespearean. They are: 
Mttccdorus, a variegated but popular 
play; that very admirable and 
entertaining play The. Merry Devil 
of Edmonton", and Pair #/;/, a poor 

Three plays were published at a 
fairly early date, but some time 
after Shakespeare's death, as his 
work in whole or in part, They are; 
The Troublesome Raignc of John, 
King of England^ the old play 
which Shakespeare worked up into 
his King John ; The Birth of Merlin , 
published in 1662 as the work of 
Shakespeare and Rowley, but prob- 
ably the work of Rowley and 
Dekker; and The Two Noble Kins- 
men, published in 1634 as the work 
of Fletcher and Shakespeare. The 
Two Noble Kinsmen is by far the 
most interesting play in the Apoc- 
rypha; it is sometimes printed in 
Shakespeare *s complete works, but 
much more frequently is not. That 



this play should be excluded from 
the canon, while Pericles is ad- 
mitted, is due perhaps in part to 
convention, in part to the extremely 
difficult problem which the play 
presents. It is, however, almost 
certain that the attribution of the 
authorship to Fletcher and Shake- 
speare in the 1634 Quarto is cor- 
rect. It would seem that Shake- 
speare devoted his attention mainly 
to the beginning and end of the 
play, while Fletcher was responsible 
for the middle. There is no doubt 
whatever that Fletcher wrote much 
of this play, but some authorities 
believe that his collaborator was 
Massinger, not Shakespeare. 

Many plays have been attributed 
to Shakespeare on internal evidence 
only, because they contain excellent 
work, or for some other reason. 
The most important of these plays 
are: Edward ///, where the Coun- 
tess of Salisbury scenes are singled 
out, with some probability, as 
Shakespearean; Arden of Fever- 
sham, published in 1592, and 
obviously the work of a mature 
writer, which Shakespeare was not 
at that date, and of an uncom- 

promising realist, which Shake- 
speare never was; and Sir Thomas 
More y which is of interest because 
its original manuscript is preserved 
in the British Museum (Harleian 
MS. 7368) and is believed to con- 
tain a fairly long additional passage 
in Shakespeare's handwriting. This 
theory was propounded in 1871, and 
was for long out of favour, but is at 
present supported by several eminent 
palaeographers. The passage is not 
strikingly but fairly Shakespearean 
in thought and diction. 

Only five, therefore, of the fifteen 
plays enumerated here as apocryphal 
are worthy of attention as contain- 
ing some of Shakespeare's work or 
as having been considered his work 
by competent authorities. These 
five are: A Yorkshire Tragedy > The 
Two Noble Kinsmen, Edward ///, 
Arden of Fever sham, and Sir 
Thomas More. The other ten may 
be summarily dismissed. 

[C. F. T. Brooke, The Shake- 
speare Apocrypha] A. F. Hopkin- 
son, Essays on Shakespeare's Doubt- 
ful Plays; J. A. Symonds, Shake- 
speare's Predecessors in the English 

Arden of Feversham Ms True and 
Lamentable Tragedy 

Alice Arden with Mosbie her Paramour conspire the murder of her 


How now, Alice, what sad and passionate? 
Make me partaker of thy pensiveness; 
Fire divided burns with lesser force. 


But I will dam that fire in my breast, 
Till by the force thereof my part consume. 
Ah Mosbie ! 



Such deep pathaires, like to a cannon's burst, 
Discharged against a ruinated wall, 
Breaks my relenting heart In thousand pieces. 
Ungentle Alice, thy sorrow is my sore; 
Thou know'st It well, and 'tis thy policy 
To forge distressful looks, to wound a breast 
Where lies a heart which dies when thou art sad, 
It Is not Love that loves to anger Love. 

It Is not Love that loves to murder Love. 

How mean you that? 

Thou know'st how dearly Ardcn loved inc. 

And then- 

And then conceal the rest, for 'tis too bad, 
Lest that my words be carried with the wind, 
And publish J d in the world to both our shames. 
1 pray thee, Mosbie, let our spring-time wither: 
Our harvest else will yield but loathsome weeds. 
Forget, I pray thee, what has past betwixt us; 
For I now blush and tremble at the thoughts. 

What, are you changed? 


Ay, to my former happy life again; 

From title of an. odious strumpet's name 

To honest Ardcn 's wife, not Ardea's honest wife 

Ah Mosbie 1 'tis thou hast rifled me of that, 

And made me slanderous to all my kin, 

Ev'n in my forehead Is thy name engraven, 


A mean artificer, that low-born name! 

I was bewitch 'd; woe-worth the hapless hour 

And all the causes that enchanted me ! 


Nay, if thou ban, let me breathe curses forth; 

And if you stand so nicely at your fame, 

Let me repent the credit I have lost. 

I have neglected matters of import, 

That would have 'stated me above thy state; 

Forslow'd advantages, and spurn 'd at time; 

Ay, Fortune J s right hand Mosbie hath forsook, 

To take a wanton giglot by the left. 

I left the marriage of an honest maid, 

Whose dowry would have weigh 'd down all thy wealth; 

Whose beauty and demeanour far exceeded thee. 

This certain good I lost for changing bad, 

And wrapp'd my credit in thy company. 

I was bewitch 'd; that is no theme of thine: 

And thou unhallow'd hast enchanted me. 

But I will break thy spells and exorcisms, 

And put another sight upon these eyes, 

That show'd my heart a raven for a dove. 

Thou art not fair; I vie\v'd thee not till now: 

Thou art not kind; till now I knew thee not: 

And now the rain hath beaten off thy gilt, 

Thy worthless copper shows thee counterfeit. 

It grieves me not to see how foul thou art, 

But mads me that ever I thought thee fair. 

Go, get thee gone, a copesmate for thy hinds; 

I am too good to be thy favourite. 


Ay, now I see, and too soon find it true, 
Which often hath been told me by my friends, 
That Mosbie loves me not but for my wealth; 
Which too incredulous I ne'er believed. 
Nay, hear me speak, Mosbie, a word or two; 
I '11 bite niy tongue if it speak bitterly. 
Look on me, Mosbie, or else I'll kill myself. 
Nothing shall hide me from thy stormy look; 
If thou cry war, there is no peace for me, 
I will do penance for offending thee ; 


And burn this prayer-book, which I here use, 

The Holy Word that has converted me. 

See, Mosbie, I will tear away the leaves, 

And all the leaves; and in this golden cover 

Shall thy sweet phrases and thy letters dwell, 

And thereon will 1 chiefly meditate, 

And hold no other sect but such devotion. 

Wilt thou not look? is all thy love overwhelm M? 

Wilt thou not hear? what malice stops thy ears? 

Why speak 'st thou not? what silence ties thy tongue? 

Thou hast been sighted as the eagle is, 

And heard as quickly as the fearful hare, 

And spoke as smoothly as an orator, 

When I have bid thcc hear, or see, or speak: 

And art thou sensible in none of these? 

Weigh all thy good turns with this little fault, 

And I deserve not Mosbie J s muddy looks, 

A fence of trouble is not thicken 'd still: 

Be clear again; I'll ne'er more trouble thee. 


fie, no; I am a base artificer; 

My wings are feather 'd for a lowly flight. 
Mosbic, fie, no; not for a thousand pound. 
Make love to you? why, 'tis unpardonable, 
We beggars must not breathe where gentles are, 


Sweet Mosbie is as gentle as a king, 
And I too blind to judge him otherwise, 
Flowers do sometimes spring in fallow lands: 
Weeds in gardens, roses grow on thorns: 
So, whatsoe'er my Mosbie 's father was, 
Himself is valued gentle by his worth. 


Ah, how you women can insinuate, 

And elear a trespass with your sweet-set tongue! 

1 will forget this quarrel, gentle Alice, 
Provided I'll be tempted so no more. 

(Act ///, Sc. 5, lines 45-149-) 


Sir Thomas More 

(MoRE is addressing a crowd of riotous citizens) 


Look, what you do offend you cry upon, 
That is, the peace: not one of you here present, 
Had there such fellows lived when you were babes, 
That could have topt the peace, as now you would, 
The peace wherein you have till now grown up 
Had been ta'en from you, and the bloody times 
Could not have brought you to the state of men. 
Alas, poor things, what is it you have got, 
Although we grant you get the thing you seek? 


Marry, the removing of the strangers, which cannot choose but much 
advantage the poor handicrafts of the city. 


Grant them removed, and grant that this your noise 
Hath chid down all the majesty of England; 
Imagine that you see the wretched strangers, 
Their babies at their backs, and their poor luggage, 
Plodding to the ports and coasts for transportation, 
And that you sit as kings in your desires, 
Authority quite silenced by your brawl, 
And you in ruff of your opinions clothed; 
What had you got? I'll tell you: you had taught 
How insolence and strong hand should prevail, 
How order should be quelled; and by this pattern 
Not one of you should live an aged man, 
For other ruffians, as their fancies wrought, 
With self same hand, self reasons, and self right, 
Would shark on you, and men like ravenous fishes 
Would feed on one another. 

Before God, that's as true as the Gospel. 

Nay, this is a sound fellow, I tell you: let's mark him. 



Let me set up before your thoughts, good friends, 

On supposition; which if you will mark, 

You shall perceive how horrible a shape 

Your innovation bears; first, 'tis a sin 

Which oft th* apostle did forewarn us of, 

Urging obedience to authority; 

And 'twere no error, if I told you all, 

You were in arms 'gainst your (Hod himself, 

Marry, God forbid that! 


Nay, certainly you are; 

For to the king God hath his office lent 

Of dread, of justice, power and command, 

Hath bid him rule, and willed you to obey; 

And, to add ampler majesty to this, 

He hath not only lent the king his figure, 

His throne and sword, but given, him his own name. 

Calls him a god on earth. What do you, then, 

Rising 'gainst him that; God himself installs, 

But rise 'gainst God? what do yon to your souls 

In doing this? 0, desperate as you are, 

Wash your foul minds with tears, and those same hands, 

That you like rebels lift against the peace, 

Lift up for peace, and your unrcvcreut knees, 

Make them your feet to kneel to be forgiven! 

Tell me but this; what rebel captain, 

As mutinies are incident, by his name 

Can still the rout? who will obey a traitor? 

Or how can well that proclamation sound, 

When there is no addition but a rebel 

To qualify a rebel? You'll put down strangers, 

Kill them, cut their throats, possess their houses, 

And lead the majesty of law in lym, 

To slip him like a hound. Say now the king 

(As he is clement, if th j offender mourn) 

Should so much come too short of your great trespass 

As but to banish you, whither would you go? 

What country, by the nature of your error, 

Should give you harbour? go you to France or Flanders, 


(See pages 158 and 159 for printed version) 

, 7 


To any German province, to Spain or Portugal, 

Nay, any where that not adheres to England, 

Why, you must needs be strangers: would you be pleased 

To find a nation of such barbarous temper, 

That, breaking out in hideous violence, 

Would not afford you an abode on earth, 

Whet their detested knives against your throats, 

Spurn you like clogs, and like as if that God 

Owed not nor made not you, nor that the elements 

Were not all appropriate to your comforts, 

But chartered unto them, what would you think 

To be thus used? this is the strangers' case; 

And this your Mohammetanish* inhumanity. 


Faith, 'a says true: let's clo as we may be done by. 


Well be ruled by you, Master More, if you'll stand our friend to 
procure our pardon. 


Submit you to these noble gentlemen, 
Entreat their mediation to the king, 
Give up yourself to form, obey the magistrate, 
And there's no doubt but mercy may be found, 
If you so seek. 

(Act II, Sc. 4, lines 85-172.) 
S. momtanish. 

(? 1553 -1625) 

JOHN FLORID was the son of a 
Florentine refugee who had been 
for a time a Protestant minister, 
but who was not righteous over- 
much in his way of life. Florio was 
born in London about 1553, and 
must be classed not as an Italianate 
Englishman, but as an Anglified 
Italian. Some Latin verses which 

arc printed below his portrait 
describe him as " Italus ore, Anglus 
pectore ", but it is to be doubted 
whether this phrase satisfied his 
lexicographical soul. He was 
educated at Magdalen College, 
Oxford, and was a private tutor in 
modern languages at Oxford. He 
was patronized by the two rival 



claimants for the honour of having 
been "Mr. W, II.", the Earl of 
Southampton and the Karl, of 
Pembroke, He published two 
handbooks for students of Italian, 
First Fruits (1578) and Second 
Fruits (1591). His tfreat Italian- 
English dictionary, Tlic Worhle, of 
Worths , appeared in 1598, His 
masterpiece, a translation of Mon- 
taigne's Essays,, came out in the 
year of the accession of King 
James, who appointed Florio tutor 
to Prince Henry and reader in 
Italian to Queen Anne. lAorio died 
at Fulham in 1625. 

Horio's exuberant translation of 
The Essaycs, or Morally Politick?, 
and Militarie Discourses of Lord 
Michael dc Montaigne > Knight of 
Ihc Noble Order of 6Y, Michael > and 
one of the Gentlemen in Ordinary 

of the. French King's Chamber is 

after North's Plutarch, perhaps the 
most famous of Elizabethan trans- 
lations. It is in every respect 
worthy of its great original, though 
" resolute John Florio " had not, 
among his many gifts, the gift of 
self-effacement so necessary for a 
translator. He was something of a 
pedant, and had in his composition 
a spice of the oddity which Sir 
Thomas Urquhtirt, the translator 
of Rabelais, possessed in super- 
abundance. I Hs lively if inaccurate 
version of Montaigne is incom- 
parably superior to the scholarly 
but commonplace rendering pub- 
lished by diaries Cotton of Com- 
pleat Angler fame in 1685. 

[Comtesse de (luimbrun, Gio- 
vanni Worfa) wi /"lf)(Jlre <h la 
Rctuiisstince en 

Montaigne's Essays 

Of the 

Now (to rcturnc to my purpose) [ thxtle (as farre an I have beenc 
informed) there is nothing in that nation, that; is cither barbarous or 
savage, unlesse men call that barbarlsmc which is not common to them, 
As indeed, we have no other aymc of truth and reason, than the example 
and Idea of the opinions and customes of the countrie we live in. There 
is ever perfect religion, perfect policie, perfect and comploat use of all 
things. They are even savage, as we call those fruits wilde, which nature 
of her sclfe, and of her ordinarie progresse hath produced: whereas 
indeed, they are those which our selves have altered by our artilidall 
devices, and diverted from their common order, we should rather tonne 
savage. In those are the true and most profitable vcrtuea, and naturall 
properties most lively and vigorous, which in these we have bastardized, 
applying them to the pleasure of our corrupted taste. And if notwith- 
standing, in clivers fruits of those countries that were never tilled, we 
shall finde, that in respect of ours they are most excellent, and as delicate 
unto our taste; there is no reason, art should game the point of 
honour of our great and puissant mother Nature, We have so much 
by our inventions surcharged the bcaxitics and riches of her workes, 
that we have altogether overehoaked her: yet where ever her puritie 


shineth, she makes our vaine and frivolous enterprises wonderfully ashamed . 

Et veniunt hederae sponte sua meliu$ y 
Surgit et in solis formosior arbutus antris, 
Et volucres nulla dultius arte canunt. 

Ivies spring better of their owne accord, 
Unhanted plots much fairer trees afford. 
Birds by no art much sweeter notes record. 

All our endevour or wit, cannot so much as reach to represent the nest 
of the least birdlet, it's contexture, beautie, profit and use, no nor the 
web of a seely spider. All things (saith Plato) are produced, either by nature, 
by fortune, or by art. The greatest and fairest by one or other of the two 
first, the least and imperfect by the last. Those nations seeme therefore 
so barbarous unto me, because they have received very little fashion 
from humane wit, and are yet neere their originall naturalitie. The lawes 
of nature doe yet command them, which are but little bastardized by 
ours, and that with such puritie, as I am sometimes grieved the know- 
ledge of it came no sooner to light, at what time there were men, that 
better than we could have judged of it. I am sorie, Lycurgus and Plato 
had it not: for me seemeth that what in those nations we see by experience, 
doth not only exceed all the pictures wherewith licentious Poesie hath 
proudly imbellished the golden age, and all her quaint inventions to 
faine a happy condition of man, but also the conception and desire of 
Philosophy. They could not imagine a genuitie so pure and simple, as 
we see it by experience; nor ever beleeve our societie might be maintained 
with so little art and humane combination. It is a nation, would I answer 
Plato, that hath no kinde of traffike, no knowledge of Letters, no in- 
telligence of numbers, no name of magistrate, nor of politike superioritie; 
no use of service, of riches or of povertie, no contracts, no successions, 
no partitions, no occupation but idle; no respect of kinred, but common, 
no apparell but naturall, no manuring of lands, no use of wine, corne, 
or mettle. The very words that import lying, falshood, treason, dis- 
simulations, covetousnes, envie, detraction, and pardon, were never 
heard of amongst them. How dissonant would hee finde his imaginarie 
common-wealth from this perfection? 

Hos natura modos primum dedit. 

Nature at first uprise, 
These manners did devise. 

Furthermore, they live in a country of so exceeding pleasant and 
temperate situation, that as my testimonies have told me, it is verie rare 
to see a sicke body amongst them; and they have further assured me, 
they never saw any man there, either shaking with the palsie, toothlesse, 
with eies dropping, or crooked and stooping through age. They are 
seated alongst the sea-coast, encompassed toward the land with huge 
VOL ii. 35 


and steeple mountaincs, having betweenc both, a hundred leagues or 
thereabout of open and ehampuine ground. They have great abundance 
of fish and flesh, that have no resemblance ut all with ours, and eat them 
without any sawces, or skill of Cookerie, but plaine boiled or broiled. 
The first man that brought a horse thither, although he had in many 
other voyages conversed with them, bred so great; ;i horror in the land, 
that before they could take notice of him, they slew him with arrowes. 
Their buildings are very long, and. able to contaiue two or three hundred 
soules, covered with barkes of great trees, fastncd, in the ground at one 
end, enterlaced and joyncd close together by the tops, after the manner 
of some of our Granges; the covering whereof hangs clowuc to the ground, 
and steacleth them as a flanckc. They have a kinde of wood so hard, 
that ryving & cleaving the same, they make blades, swords, and grid- 
irons to broile their meat with. Their beds arc of a kinde of cotton cloth, 
fastnecl to the housc-roofe, as our ship-eabbancs: cveric one hath his 
severall cowch; for the women lie from their husbands. They rise with 
the Sunne, and feed for all clay, as soonc as they are up: and make no 
more meales after that. They drinke not at meat, as Suidas reporteth 
of some other people of the East, which dranke after meales, but drinke 
many times a day, and are much given to pledge earowses. Their drinke 
is made of a certaine root, and of the colour of our Claret wines, which 
lasteth but two or three daics; they drinke it warmer It hath somewhat 
a sharpe taste, wholsomc for the stomack, nothing heady, but laxative 
for such as are not used unto it, yet verie pleasing to such as are accustomed 
unto it. In stead of bread, they use a certaine white composition, like 
unto Corianders confected. I have eaten some, the taste whereof is 
somewhat sweet and wallowish. They spend the whole day in dancing- 
Their young men goe a hunting after wilde beasts with bowes and arrowes. 
Their women busie themselves therewhil'st with warming of their drinke, 
which is their chiefest office. Some of their old men, in, the morning 
before they goe to eating, preach in common to all the houshold, walking 
from one end of the house to the other, repeating one sclfc-same sentence 
many times, till he have ended his turne (for their buildings arc a hundred 
paces in length) he commends but two things unto his auditorie, First, 
valour against their enemies, then lovingnesse unto their wives. They never 
misse (for their restraint) to put men in minde of this dutic, that it is 
their wives which keepe their drinke luke-warme and well-seasoned. The 
forme of their beds, cords, swords, blades, and wooddcn bracelets, where- 
with they cover their hand wrists, when they fight, and great Canes 
open at one end, by the sound of which they kcepc time and cadence 
in their dancing, are in many places to be seene, and namely in mine 
owne house. They are, shaven all over, much more close and cleaner 
than wee are, with no other Razors than of wood or stone. They bclccve 
their soules to be eternall, and those tfort have deserved well of their 


Gods, to be placed in that part of heaven where the Sunne riseth, and 
the cursed toward the West in opposition. They have certaine Prophets 
and Priests, which commonly abide in the mountaines, and very seldome 
shew themselves unto the people; but when they corne downe, there 
is a great feast prepared, and a solemne assembly of manie towneships 
together (each Grange as I have described maketh a village, and they 
are about a French league one from another.) The Prophet speakes to 
the people in publike, exhorting them to embrace vertue, and follow 
their dutie. All their morall discipline containeth but these two articles; 
first an undismaied resolution to warre, then an inviolable affection to 
their wives. Hee doth also Prognosticate of things to corne, and what 
successe they shall hope for in their enterprises: hee either perswadeth 
or disswadeth them, from warre; but if he chance to misse of his divination, 
and that it succeed otherwise than hee foretold them, if hee be taken, 
he is hewen in a thousand peeces, and condemned for a false Prophet. 
And therefore he that hath once misreckoned himselfe is never scene 
againe. Divination is the gift of God; the abusing whereof should be a 
punishable imposture. When the Divines amongst the Scythians had 
foretold an untruth, they were couched along upon hurdles full of heath 
or brushwood, drawne by oxen, and so manicled hand and foot, burned 
to death. Those which manage matters subject to the conduct of mans 
sufficiencie, are excusable, although they shew the utmost of their skill. 
But those that gull and conicatch us with the assurance of an extraordinarie 
facultie, and which is beyond our knowledge, ought to be double 
punished; first because they performe not the effect of their promise, 
then for the rashnesse of their imposture and unadvisednesse of their 
fraud. They warre against the nations, that lie beyond their rnountaines, 
to which they go naked, having no other weapons than bowes, or woodden 
swords, sharpe at one end, as our broaches are. It is an admirable thing 
to see the constant resolution of their combats, which never end but by 
effusion of bloud and murther: for they know not what feare or rowts 
are. Every Victor brings home the head of the enemie he hath slaine as 
a Trophey of his victorie, and fastneth the same at the entrance of his 
dwelling place. After they have long time used and entreated their prisoners 
well, and with all commodities they can devise, he that is the Master of 
them; sommoning a great assembly of his acquaintance, tieth a corde 
to one of the prisoners armes, by the end whereof he holds him fast, 
with some distance from him, for feare he might offend him, and giveth 
the other arme, bound in like manner, to the dearest friend he hath, 
and both in the presence of all the assembly kill him with swords : which 
done, they roast, and then eat him in common, and send some slices of 
him to such of their friends as are absent. It is not as some imagine, to 
nourish themselves with it, (as anciently the Scithians wont to doe,) but 
to represent an extreme, and inexpiable revenge. 




? 1565-1618) 

Summa To tails (1607), The Holy 
Rootle (1609), Willcs Pilgrimage 
(1610), The Scourge of Folly (ifai) 9 
and The Muse's Sacrifice (1612)! 
His longer poems are verse-exer- 
cises in philosophy and theology; 
unlike his titled namesake, he liad 
not mastered the art of reasoning 
lucidly in easy verse- It has been 
unkindly suggested that this fore- 
runner of " Horace Nibbs the 
writing-master " displayed his pen- 
manship rather than his poetical 
gifts in these poems* His shorter 
poems Sonnets and Epigrams- 
have wit, though perhaps not wit 
of the highest order. His practical 
manual, The Writing Schoolmaster, 
or the Anatomy of Fair Writing, 
was not printed until fifteen years 
after his death. His works have 
been edited by A. B. Grosart. 

must not be confused with his 
slightly younger contemporary Six- 
John Davies (q.v.), was born at 
Hereford about 1565, He was of 
Welsh extraction. By profession he 
was a writing-master, and pursued 
his calling at Oxford, though he 
does not appear to have been a 
member of the university. He was 
patronized by the nobility, but was 
never in affluent circumstances. 
Little more is known about him, 
save that he was three times 
married and was said to have been 
a Roman Catholic. He died in the 
summer of 1618. 

Davies wrote a large quantity of 
verse, but his writings cannot be 
called great except as regards their 
bulk. His works include Minim in 
Modum (1602), Microcosmus (1603), 

Respice Finem 

Whenas I hear Time's sober Tongue (the Clock) 
Call on me ev'ry hour to mind mine end, 
It strikes my heart with fear at ev'ry stroke 
Because so ill Time, Life, and Breath, I spend . 
Then straight resolve I, to bestow them all 
Upon the Lord of all, that gave them me, 
When lo, the World upon me straight doth call 
And bids me look to it, lest poor I be: 
Twixt these two Calls I parted am in twain, 
The first my Spirit, the last my Flesh attends ; 
So 'twixt them two my pleasure is but pain , 
For each the other evermore offends. 
Sin .tenders me all Joys, that ravish Sense, 
And Sense doth pine if from Them It be held: 
Grace offers Joys of much more excellence, 


And fain my Spirit would with Them be filled. 
But in frail Flesh Sense such a Caesar is 
That it Commands it to withstand the Sprite, 
While it doth feed the Flesh with Earthly Bliss: 
And so, my Sprite is vex'd with that delight. 
Thus, while I am distracted in desire 
Time (in his Language after some Hours ' pause) 
Tells me he flies, and bids me to retire 
Before Confusion catch me in his jaws. 

Time (that thus endear 5 st me to thy love) 

1 constantly adore thy fickleness, 

That never mov'st, but dost my Senses move 

To mind thy flight, and this life's tickleness. 

O that I could make thee Eternity ! 

And honour thee, for this, with state divine, 

That with the God of Glory, thou and I 

Might like the Sun and Moon, for ever shine ! 

Teach me, O learned long-experienc s d Time 

To glorify thee with some heavenly Art, 

Whose humble Muse would to thy Temples climb 

To Laurel-Crown them, ere from Thee I part. 

O let me be the Triton of thy praise: 

Teach me to Trumpet forth thine Excellence : 

Let me (though most unworthy) grace thy Days 

With all that may delight Intelligence. 

Let me by thee (dear Time) be brought to Death 

Ere I abuse thee in the least degree: 

For, he wins Bliss that doth but lose his Breath 

To be still found, from Time's Abuses free. 

Then now, O now (sith now my Days decline) 

Let me this Moment enter in the Way 

Of Vertue, Grace, and holy Discipline, 

And being in, thence, let me never stray: 

Procrastination doth but Plagues protract, 

Due to protraction of Conversion: 

The Time with Plagues my wayward Will Coact 

To turn to Grace, ere my subversion. 

Let it suffise that I have thee abus'd 

Since I was born, in Wrongs not to be borne : 

Then be thou, by me, henceforth rightly us'd, 

Or let me, by Thee, die, or live forlorn: 
For, I am weary now of wronging Thee, 
Then let me flee from Vice as thou dost Flee. 



( 1567 - 1620 ) 

THOMAS CAMPION was born on 
1 2th February, 1567. His father, 
who died when the poet was in his 
tenth year, was a prosperous mem- 
ber of the Middle Temple. Cam- 
pion was educated at Peterhouse, 
Cambridge, but did not graduate. 
In 1586 he was entered at Gray's 
Inn, but was not called to the Bar. 
We do not know much about his 
life or his means of livelihood for 
some years; it is believed on good 
but not conclusive evidence that 
he accompanied the Earl of Essex's 
expedition to France in 1591, and 
was present at the siege of Rouen. 
In 1595 he published Poemata, a 
volume of admirable Latin verse. 
His first collection of English poems, 
A Booke ofAyres, appeared in 1601. 
The music of the first part of this 
book was composed by Campion 
himself, that of the second part by 
his friend Philip Rosseter. In 1602 
he published his curious pamphlet 
Observations in the Art of English 
Poesie, in which he maintained " the 
unaptnesse of Rime in Poesie " 
a strange theory to be supported by 
one who was himself a masterly 
rhymer. This pamphlet was cour- 
teously but completely refuted by 
Daniel (q.v.) in his Defence of 
Ryme. Sometime before 1606 
Campion took the degree of Doctor 
of Medicine, almost certainly at 
some continental university, and 
began to practise as a physician. 
In 1607 he wrote a Masque in 
honour of the Lord Hay and his 
bnde, and in 1613 published a 
volume, Songs of Mourning, in 
which he lamented the death of 

Henry, Prince of Wales. In 1612 
Two Bookcs of Ay res appeared. In 
the following year he wrote three 
masques, The Lords' Masque, Enter- 
tainment to 1/ie Queen at Ctwersham 
House, and Masque at the Marriage 
of the Earl of Somerset. The Third 
and Fourth 'Boohe of Ay res appeared 
in 1617, and in the same year Cam- 
pion published a technical musical 
treatise, A New Way of Making 
Fowre Parts in Counter-point. The 
words of Ayres that were sung and 
played at 'Brougham Castle (1618) 
are almost certainly his work. 
Campion died in 1620, having 
reissued his Latin, poems with 
corrections and additions in the 
previous year. 

The name of Thomas Campion, 
poet, composer, and physician, was 
almost entirely forgotten until A. H. 
Bullen edited his works in 1889. 
He now ranks, by almost universal 
consent, as one of the most charm- 
ing of Elizabethan lyrical poets. It 
is seldom that <( music and sweet 
poetry agree " as they do in his 
poems, because it is "seldom that 
poet and musician are combined in 
one person. Sometimes, doubtless 
he set his words to music, and at 
other times he wrote words to fit 
some air that was running through 
his head; as is natural, poems of 
the former kind arc superior to the 
others. But all his poems are good; 
and he can even perform the most 
difficult feat of writing sacred 
pieces which are as good as his 
secular poems. As a writer of 
masques he was not so good; it is 
perhaps foolish to complain that a 



masque lacks plot, as by its very 
nature it is an insubstantial pageant; 
but construction of some kind is 
looked for, and is looked for in 
vain in the masques of Campion. 
He relied on his lyrics and music to 
make his masques successful. As a 
writer of lyrics Campion is original, 
fresh, spontaneous, and masterly. 
The variety of his metres and his 
absolute command over each kind 
are remarkable. It is most fortu- 
nate that, with the " inconsistency 
which distinguishes man from the 

brutes ", Campion did not practise 
what he preached and did not 
eschew rhyme. Bullen has likened 
him to Meleager, but at his best 
Campion is superior to that de- 
lightful but exotic Greek. Cam- 
pion's best poems have the abandon 
and the apparent artlessness of the 
bird-songs in Aristophanes. 

[Editions by A. H. Bullen and 
S. P. Vivian; Paul Reyher, Les 
Masques Anglais; T. Macdonagh, 
Thomas Campion and the Art of 
English Poetry. 

Rose-cheeked Laura, come 
Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's 
Silent music, either other 

Sweetly gracing. 

Lovely forms do flow 
From concent divinely framed; 
Heav'n is music, and thy beauty's 

Birth is heavenly. 

These dull notes we sing 
Discords need for helps to grace them; 
Only beauty purely loving 

Knows no discord. 

But still moves delight, 
Like clear springs renew 'd by flowing. 
Ever perfect, ever in them- 
selves eternal. 

The peaceful western wind 

The winter storms hath tam'd, 

And nature in each kind 

The kind heat hath inflam'd: 
The forward buds so sweetly breathe 

Out of their earthy bowers, 
That heav'n which views their pomp beneath 

Would fain be decked with flowers. 


See how the morning smiles 

On her bright eastern hill, 

And with soft steps beguiles 

Them that lie slumb 'ring still . 
The music-loving birds are come 

From cliffs and rocks unknown, 
To see the trees and briers bloom 

That late were overflown. 

What Saturn did destroy, 

Love's Queen revives again; 

And now her naked boy 

Doth in the fields remain, 
Where he such pleasing change doth view 

In ev'ry living thing, 
As if the world were born anew 

To gratify the Spring. 

If all things life present, 

Why die my comforts then? 

Why suffers my content? 

Am I the worst of men? 
0, beauty, be not thou accused 

Too justly in this case: 
Unkindly if true love be used, 

Twill yield thcc little grace. 

Now winter nights enlarge 

The number of their hours; 
And clouds their storms discharge 

Upon the airy towers. 
Let now the chimneys blaze 

And cups o'erflow with wine, 
Let well-tuned words amaze 

With harmony divine, 
Now yellow waxen lights 

Shall wait on honey Love, 
While youthful Revels, Masks, and Courtly sights 

Sleep 's leaden spells remove. 

This time doth well dispense 
With lovers' long discourse; 


Much speech hath some defence, 

Though beauty no remorse. 
All do not all things well; 

Some measures comely tread; 
Some knotted Riddles tell; 

Some Poems smoothly read. 
The Summer hath his joys, 

And Winter his delights; 
Though Love and all his pleasures are but toys, 

They shorten tedious nights. 

Jack and Joan they think no ill, 

But loving live, and merry still; 

Do their weekdays' work, and pray 

Devoutly on the holy day: 

Skip and trip it on the green, 

And help to choose the Summer Queen: 

Lash out, at a Country Feast, 

Their silver penny with the best. 

Well can they judge of nappy Ale, 

And tell at large a Winter tale; 

Climb up to the Apple loft, 

And turn the Crabs till they be soft. 

Tib is all the father's joy, 

And little Tom the mother's boy. 

All their pleasure is content; 

And care, to pay their yearly rent 

Joan can call by name her Cows, 
And deck her windows with green boughs; 
She can wreaths and tuttyes make, 
And trim with plums a Bridal Cake. 
Jack knows what brings gain or loss ; 
And his long Flail can stoutly toss: 
Make the hedge, which others break, 
And ever thinks what he doth speak. 

Now, you Courtly Dames and Knights, 
That study only strange delights; 
Though you scorn the home-spun gray, 
And revel in your rich array: 


Though your tongues dissemble deep, 
And can your heads from danger keep; 
Yet, for all your pomp and train, 
Securer lives the silly Swain. 

What then is love but mourning? 

What desire, but a self-burning? 
Till she that hates doth love return, 
Thus will I mourn, thus will I sing, 

" Come away, come away, my darling.*' 

Beauty is but a blooming, 

Youth in his glory entombing; 
Time hath a while, which none can stay: 
Then come away, while thus I sing, 
" Come away, come away, my darling," 

Summer in winter f acleth ; 

Gloomy night heav'nly light shiulcih: 
Like to the morn arc Venus' flowers; 
Such arc her hours: then will I sing, 

" Come away, come away, my darling," 

Thrice toss these Oaken ashes in the air, 
Thrice sit thou mute in this enchanted chair; 
And thrice three times tie up this true love's knot, 
And murmur soft, " She will, or she will not;/ 3 

Go burn these pois'nous weeds in yon blue lire, 
These Screech-owl's feathers and this prickling brier; 
This Cypress gathered at a dead man's grave; 
That all thy fears and cares aa end may have. 

Then come, you Fairies, dance with me a round; 
Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound: 
In vain are all the charms I can devise; 
She hath an Art to break them with her eyes. 


Her fair inflaming eyes, 

Chief authors of my cares, 
I prayed in humblest wise 
With grace to view my tears: 
They beheld me broad awake, 
But alas, no ruth would take. 

Her lips with kisses rich, 

And words of fair delight, 
I fairly did beseech, 
To pity my sad plight; 

But a voice from them brake forth, 
As a whirlwind from the North. 

Then to her hands I fled, 

That can give heart and all; 
To them I long did plead, 
And loud for pity call: 
But, alas, they put me off, 
With a touch worse than a scoff. 

So back I straight returned, 

And at her breast I knocked; 
Where long in vain I mourned, 
Her heart so fast was locked: 
Not a word could passage find, 
For a Rock enclosed her mind. 

Then down my prayers made way 

To those most comely parts, 
That make her fly or stay, 
As they affect deserts: 

But her angry feet, thus moved, 
Flecl with all the parts I loved. 

Yet fled they not so fast, 
As her enraged mind: 
Still did I after haste, 
Still was I left behind; 
Till I found 'twas to no end, 
With a Spirit to contend. 


Kind arc her answers, 

But her performance keeps no clay; 
Breaks time, as dancers 

From their own Music when they stray: 

All her free favours 

And smooth words wing my hopes in vain. 
O did ever voice so sweet but only feign? 

Can true love yield such delay, 

Converting joy to pain? 

Lost is our freedom > 

When we submit to women so : 
Why do we need them, 

When in their best they work our woe? 

There is no wisdom 
Can alter ends, by Fate prefixed. 
why is the good of man with evil mixed? 

Never were clays yet called two, 

But one night went betwixt. 

Whea them must home to shades of under ground, 

And there arrived, a new admired guest, 

The beauteous spirits do ingirt thec round, 

White lope, blithe Helen, and the rest, 

To hear the stones of thy finished love 

From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move; 

Then wilt tkm speak of banqueting -delights, 
Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make, 
Of tourneys and great challenges of knights, 
And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake: 
When thou hast tolcl these honours done to thec, 
Then tell, tell, how thou didst murder me. 

Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow, 

Though thou be black as night, 

And she made all of light, 

Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow. 

Follow her whose light thy light depriveth, 

Though here thou liv'st disgraced, 

And she in heaven is placed, 

Yet follow her whose light the world rcvrveth. 


Follow those pure beams whose beauty burneth, 

That so have scorched thee, 

As thou still black must be, 

Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth, 

Follow her while yet her glory shineth: 

There comes a luckless night, 

That will dim all her light; 

And this the black unhappy shade divineth. 

Follow still since so thy fates ordained; 

The Sun. must have his shade, 

Till both at once do fade, 

The Sun still proud, the shadow still disdained. 

My sweetest Lesbia let us live and love, 

And though the sager sort our deeds reprove, 

Let us not weigh them: heav'ns great lamps do dive 

Into their west, and straight again revive, 

But soon as once set is our little light, 

Then must we sleep one ever- during night. 

If all would lead their lives in love like me, 
Then bloody swords and armour should not be, 
No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move, 
Unless alarm came from the camp of love: 
But fools do live, and waste their little light, 
And seek with pain their ever-during night. 

When timely death my life and fortune ends, 

Let not my hearse be vexed with mourning friends, 

But let all lovers rich in triumph come, 

And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb; 

And Lesbia close up thou my little light, 

And crown with love my ever-during night. 

The man of life upright, 
Whose guiltless heart is free 

From all dishonest deeds, 
Or thought of vanity, 


The man whose silent days, 
In harmless joys arc spent, 

Whom hopes cannot delude, 
Nor sorrow discontent; 

That man needs neither towers 
Nor armour for defence, 

Nor secret vaults to fly 
From thunder's violence. 

He only can behold 
With unaffrightcd eyes 

The horrors of the deep 
And terrors of the Skies. 

Thus, scorning all the cares 
That fate or fortune brings, 

He makes the heav'n his book, 
His wisdom heav'nly things f 

Good thoughts his only friends, 
His wealth a well-spent age, 

The earth his sober Inn 
And quiet Pilgrimage. 

Whether men do laugh or weep, 
Whether they do wake or sleep, 
Whether they die young or old, 
Whether they feel heat or cold ; 
There is, underneath the sun, 
Nothing in true earnest done. 

All our pride is but a jest; 
None are worst, and none are best; 
Grief, and joy, and hope, and fear, 
Play their Pageants everywhere : 
Vain opinion all cloth sway, 
And the world is but a play. 

Powers above in clouds do sit, 
Mocking our poor apish wit; 
That so lamely, with such state, 
Their high glory imitate: 
No ill can be felt but pain, 
And that happy men disdain. 



(c. 1567-1640) 

about 1567, and was educated at 
the grammar-school at Stirling and 
the universities of Glasgow and 
Leyden. He was appointed tutor 
to the seventh Earl of Argyle, whom 
he accompanied to France, Spain, 
and Italy. On his return he was 
attached to the court of King 
James, and was eventually appointed 
tutor to Prince Henry. In 1603 he 
followed James to England, and in 
the same year published his closet- 
tragedy Darius. His other similar 
tragedies are Croesus (1604), The 
Alexandrean Tragedy (1605), and 
Julius Casar (?i6o7). The last- 
named play, though its date is 
uncertain, was without doubt later 
than Shakespeare's play on the 
same subject; nor is it necessary 
to suppose, as has frequently been 
done, that Shakespeare had in mind 
an obscure passage of Darius when 
he penned a famous passage in The 
Tempest. In 1604 Alexander pub- 
lished A Paraenesis to the Prince , a 
poem of good advice addressed to 
Prince Henry, perhaps the most 
pleasing of his productions. In the 
same year appeared a collection of 
sonnets entitled Aurora, in which 
perhaps there is a certain amount 
of camouflaged autobiography. His 
sonnets are often good, though they 
appeared after the hey-day of the 
sonnet, so that he ranks as a camp- 
follower rather than as a pioneer. 
In 1607 he published his four 
tragedies in one volume entitled 
Monarchicke Tragedies. He was 

knighted in or before 1609. He 
wrote the customary lament for the 
death of Prince Henry in 1612, and 
was appointed tutor to Prince 
Charles. In the following year he 
published an unimportant com- 
pletion of the third part of the 
Arcadia. His sacred epic Doomes- 
day, a " stupendous, monstr'- 
mform-ingens-horrendous " piece 
of work in 12,000 lines, began to 
appear in 1614. The rest of 
Alexander's life was devoted more 
to politics than to literature. In 
1614 he was made Master of 
Requests. In 1621 he was granted 
vast tracts of land in Nova Scotia 
and Canada, and played a prominent 
part in Scottish colonization schemes 
and in the granting of baronetcies 
of Nova Scotia. He wrote his 
admirable prose Encouragement to 
Colonies to further his schemes, but 
they were mostly unsuccessful. In 
1626 he became Secretary of State 
for Scotland, and was created a 
viscount in 1630 and an earl in 
1633, when Charles was crowned 
at Holyrood. In 1631 he published 
the unfortunate metrical version of 
the Psalms which King James 
nominally perpetrated, though there 
is little doubt that Alexander sub- 
jected the royal effusions to a 
rigorous revision which sometimes 
amounted to rewriting. This book 
was a failure from every point 
of view, including the pecuniary. 
Lord Stirling collected his writings 
in a sumptuous folio in 1637, under 
the title Recreations with the Muses. 


This edition included a fragmentary 
sacred epic Jonathan^ and omitted 
his earlier amatory poems. He 
died insolvent in 1640. 

Alexander was a wise and patriotic 
statesman; his ability has perhaps 
been insufficiently recognized by 
historians, as he was an episco- 
palian, As a man he had a genius 
for friendship, and was loved by 
such men as Drayton and Drum- 
mond of Hawthornden. As a poet 
he does not stand high; as a drama- 
tist he can hardly be said to have 
any standing. " His tragedies were 

reckoned much too thoughtful for 
the stage"; they were didactic 
poems rather than plays. He is 
weighty, laboured, and dull; in 
Ins large output little poetry is to 
be found. But there is some; 
occasional lines and passages will 
cheer the persevering reader, so 
that he can renew his strength' and 
proceed without weariness. 

[C. Rogers, Memorials of the 
Earl of Stirling-, L. E. Kastner and 
1 1. B. Charlton, The. Poetical Works 
of Sir William Alexander, Earl of 
Stirling (S.T.S.).] 



Whilst charming fancies move me to reveale 
The idle ravings of my brain-sickc youth, 
My heart doth pant within, to hcarc my mouth 
Unfold the follies which it would concealer 
Yet bitter Critickes may mistake my mind; 
Not beautie, no, but vcrtuc raisd my fires, 
Whose sacred flame did cherish chast desires, 
And through my cloudie fortune clearely shiu'd. 
But had not others otherwise advisd, 
My cabinet should yet these scrolcs containe, 
This childish birth of a conceitie brainc; 
Which I had still as trifling toyes despiscl: 

Pardon those errours of mine unripe age; 

My tender Muse by time may grow more sage. 


Sweet blushing goddesse of the golden morning, 
Faire patronesse of all the worlds affaires, 
Thou art become so carelesse of my cares, 
That I must name thee goddesse of rny mourning. 
Lo how the Sunne part of thy burthen bcares, 
And whil'st thou doest in pearly drops rcgrate, 
As t'were to pitie thy distressd state, 
Exhales the Christall of thy glistring tcares; 


But I poure forth my vowes before thy shrine ; 

And whil'st thou dost my loving zeal despise, 

Do drowne my heart in th' ocean of mine eyes; 

Yet daign'st thou not to drie these teares of mine, 
Unlesse it be with th' Aetna of desires, 
Which even amidst those floods doth foster fires. 


Mine eyes would ever on thy beauties gaze, 
Mine eares are ever greedie of thy fame, 
My heart is ever musing on the same, 
My tongue would still be busied with thy praise: 
I would mine eyes were blind and could not see, 
I would mine eares were deafe and would not heare; 
I would my heart would never hold thee deare, 
I would my tongue all such reports would flee: 
Th' eyes in their circles do thy picture hold, 
Th' eares conducts keepe still ecchoes of thy worth, 
The heart can never barre sweet fancies forth, 
The tongue that which I thinke must still unfold: 
Thy beauties then from which I would rebell, 
Th' eyes see, th' eares heare, th' heart thinks, and 
tongue must tell. 



MICHAEL DRAYTON was born at 
Hartshill, in Warwickshire, in 1563. 
His father was a well-to-do man of 
the middle classes. We know little 
of his boyhood and early years, 
and there is no reason to believe 
that he was a University man. We 
do know, however, on his own 
authority, that he cherished poetical 
ambitions at an unusually pre- 
cocious age, and judging from the 
strenuousness of his character we 
may feel sure that he served a long 
and arduous apprenticeship to the 

divine art of poetry. He appears 
to have been for some time a page 
in the family of Sir Henry Goodere 
of Polesworth, near Tamworth. In 
1591 he published The Harmonie 
of the Church, a not very promising 
versification of certain passages of 
the Old Testament and Apocrypha. 
Though apparently a blameless 
production, this book for some 
reason offended the authorities and 
was suppressed. In 1593 he pub- 
lished his collection of nine eclogues, 
Idea, the Shepheard's Garland, 


I 7 8 


which owes a considerable debt to 
Spenser. This volume, like many 
of Drayton's works, was later sub- 
jected to a most drastic revision. 
His second thoughts almost in- 
variably follow the proverb in 
being best; his pastoral poems in 
their revised form (1606) rank 
among the most pleasing of his 
writings. Several critics have 
attempted to identify Drayton's 
pastoral characters, especially, of 
course, Idea herself, with actual 
persons, but the results of these 
speculations are so uncertain that 
it is scarcely worth while recording 
them here. In 1594 Drayton wrote 
Peirs Gaveston Earle of Cornwall 
and Matilda^ the faire and chaste 
daughter of the Lord Robert Fitz- 
water; in 1596 he wrote The 
Tragicall Legend of Robert Duke of 
Normandy , and eleven years later 
The Legend of Great Cromwcl. 
These four legends belonged even 
at the time of their appearance to a 
somewhat old-fashioned school of 
poetry; like Falstaff, they were born 
with a white head. They all contain 
admirable passages. In 1594 he 
wrote his sonnet-sequence Ideas 
Mirrour, which was carefully re- 
vised no fewer than five times. The 
sonnets are in the Shakespearean 
not the Petrarchan form. Many of 
them, especially in their revised 
form, contain fine lines; but it is 
seldom that Drayton can remain on 
the heights for an entire quatorzain. 
Endimion and Phoebe appeared in 
1595; it is a pleasing and beautiful 
poem. His ambitious historical 
poem Mortimeriados appeared in 
1596;^ it was written in rhyme royal, 
and in 1603 was recast into the 
eight-line stanza and renamed The 
Barrons Wars. Few men, save 
Drayton, who had accomplished 

the task of writing such a pcem, 
would have undertaken the labour 
of rewriting it. In neither version 
is it satisfactory. One of Drayton's 
most popular poems, England* 
Heroicall Epistles, modelled upon 
Ovid's Pleroides, was published in 
1597. It is written in admirably 
smooth heroic couplets. About 
this time Drayton was drawn into 
the vortex of Elizabethan drama. 
It is uncertain whether he wrote 
any plays single-handed, and the 
only extant play which contains his 
work is The First Part of Sir John 
Oldcastle, of which he was one of 
the four authors. Drama obviously 
was not his bent. In 1603 Drayton 
unsuccessfully attempted to in- 
gratiate himself with King James; 
his disappointment when rebuffed 
caused him to write a flat satire, 
The Owle, in 1604. In the same 
year appeared Moyses in a Map of 
his Miracles] this poem was re- 
vised in 1630. His Odes (1606) 
contains the admirable Ballad of 
Agincourt. Polyolbiou, his most 
stupendous and most frequently 
named (not most frequently read) 
work was long on the stocks. We 
know from Francis Meres that he 
was at work on it in 1598, but the 
first eighteen "songs" were not 
published until 1613. There were 
difficulties about finding a pub- 
lisher for more, and twelve more 
" songs " were not printed until 
1622. The poem is a poetical 
gazetteer of England, and would 
have included Scotland had it met 
with a more favourable reception, 
Its composition must have necessi- 
tated a vast amount of research 
and labour; Sclden supplied the 
first eighteen " songs " with a 
learned commentary, but the text is 
only slightly less learned. The 



poem is written in rhymed Alexan- 
drine couplets; the additional two 
syllables in each line change the 
metre from " riding rhyme " to 
ambling verse. An immense amount 
of industry must have gone to the 
writing of this poem; Drayton well 
merits the epithet x a ^ K * VT P^ 
infelicitously rendered " of brazen 
bowels " by Liddell and Scott. 
Polyolbion was so planned that 
perhaps no poet could have made 
it a delightful whole; Drayton has 
made of it a competent piece of 
work with many interesting and 
some charming passages. Some of 
Drayton's latest poems are among 
his best; Nimphidia (1627) is a 
delightful mock-heroic fairy poem, 
which might have been written by 
Mercutio himself. It is an extra- 
ordinary piece of work for a man of 
sixty-three. The Quest of Cynthia 
and The Shepheards Sirena are 
graceful pastoral poems which ap- 
peared in the same volume; The 
Muses Elizium (1630) contains fresh 
and attractive work. Drayton died 

late in 1631, and was buried in 
Westminster Abbey. 

In his long life Drayton wrote an 
astonishing amount of poetry, whose 
variety is quite as remarkable as its 
excellence. He wrote one of the 
best sonnets, one of the best war- 
songs, the longest topographical 
poem, and perhaps the best fairy 
poetry in the language. He was no 
mere follower of poetic fashion, yet 
his poems reflect the changes which 
took place in English poetry be- 
tween 1590 and 1630. He took a 
lofty view of the dignity and 
importance of his own calling, and 
was never a careless though some- 
times a clumsy workman. In many 
respects he remained throughout 
his life an Elizabethan, trying to 
sing songs of Zion in a strange land. 

[O. Elton, Michael Drayton: a 
Critical Study] W. J. Courthope, 
History of English Poetry; articles 
in The Review of English Studies 
(January and October, 1928) and 
in The Modern Language Review 
(July, 1930) by Dr. I. Gourvitch.J 

Idea. 6 1 

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part, 
Nay, I have done: You get no more of me 
And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart, 
That thus so cleanly, I myself can free, 
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, 
And when we meet at any time again, 
Be it not seen in either of our brows, 
That we one jot of former love retain; 
Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath, 
When, his pulse failing, passion speechless lies, 
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, 
And Innocence is closing up his eyes, 
Now if thou would 'st, when all have given him over, 
From Death to Life, thou might 'st him yet recover. 


To the Cambro-Britans 

id their Harpe, his Ballad of Agincourt 

Fair stood the wind for France, 
When we our sails advance, 
Nor now to prove our chance, 

Longer will tarry; 
But putting to the Mayne, 
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train, 

Landed King Harry. 

And taking many a fort, 
Furnish M in warlike sort, 
Marcheth towards Agincourt, 

In happy hour; 
Skirmishing day by clay, 
With those that stopp'd his way, 
Where the French General lay, 

With all his power. 

Which in his height of pride, 
King Henry to deride, 
His ransom to provide 

To the King sending. 
Which he neglects the while, 
As from a nation vile, 
Yet with an angry smile, 

Their fall portending. 

And turning to his men, 
Quoth our brave Henry then, 
" Though they to one be ten, 

Be not amazed. 
Yet have we well begun, 
Battles so bravely won, 
Have ever to the sun. 

By Fame been raised. 

" And, for myself (quoth he), 
This my full rest shall be, 
England ne'er mourn for me, 
Nor more esteem me. 


Victor I will remain, 
Or on this Earth lie slain, 
Never shall she sustain 
Loss to redeem me. 

tc Poitiers and Crecy tell, 

When most their pride did swell, 

Under our swords they fell, 

No less our skill is, 
Than when our grandsire great, 
Claiming the regal seat, 
By many a warlike feat, 

Lopp'd the French lilies." 

The Duke of York so dread, 
The eager vanguard led; 
With the main, Henry sped, 

Amongst his hench-men. 
Exeter had the rear, 
A braver man not there, 
O Lord, how hot they were, 

On the false Frenchmen ! 

They now to fight are gone, 
Armour on armour shone, 
Drum now to drum did groan, 

To hear, was wonder; 
That with the cries they make, 
The very earth did shake, 
Trumpet to trumpet spake, 

Thunder to Thunder. 

Well it thine age became, 
O noble Erpingham, 
Which didst the signal aim, 

To our hid forces; 
When from a meadow by, 
Like a storm suddenly, 
The English archery 

Struck the French horses, 

With Spanish yew so strong, 
Arrows a cloth-yard long, 
That like to serpents stung, 
Piercing the weather; 


None from his fellows starts, 
But playing manly parts, 
And like true English hearts, 
Stuck close together. 

When down their Bows they threw, 
And forth their Bilboes drew, 
And on the French they flew, 

Not one was tardy; 
Arms were from shoulders sent, 
Scalps to the teeth were rent, 
Down the French peasants went, 

Our men were hardy. 

This while our noble King, 
His broad-sword brandishing, 
Down the French host did ding, 

As to overwhelm it; 
And many a deep wound lent, 
His arms with blood besprent, 
And many a cruel dent 

Bruised his helmet. 

Gloucester, that Duke so good, 
Next of the royal blood, 
For famous England stood, 

With his brave brother; 
Clarence, in steel so bright, 
Though but a maiden knight, 
Yet in that furious fight, 

Scarce such another. 

Warwick in blood did wade, 
Oxford the foe invade, 
And cruel slaughter made, 

Still as they ran up; 
Suffolk his axe did ply, 
Beaumont and Willoughby 
Bare them right doughtily, 

Ferrers and Fanhope. 

Upon Saint Crispin's day 
Fought was this noble fray, 


Which Fame did not delay, 

To England to carry; 
O, when shall English men 
With such acts fill a pen, 
Or England breed again 
Such a King Harry? 

From "Nimphidia 55 

Her chariot ready straight is made, 
Each thing therein is fitting laid, 
That she by nothing might be stayed, 

For naught must be her letting, 
Four nimble Gnats the horses were, 
Their harnesses of Gossamer, 
Fly Cranion her charioteer, 

Upon the coach-box getting. 

Her chariot of a snail's fine shell, 
Which for the colours did excel: 
The fair Queen Mab becoming well, 

So lively was the limning: 
The seat the soft wool of the bee ; 
The cover (gallantly to see), 
The wing of a pied butterfly, 

I trow 'twas simple trimming. 

The wheels composed of crickets' bones, 
And daintily made for the nonce, 
For fear of rattling on the stones, 

With thistledown they shod it; 
For all her maidens much did fear. 
If Oberon had chanced to hear, 
That Mab his Queen should have been there, 

He would not have abode it. 

She mounts her chariot with a trice, 
Nor would she stay for no advice, 
Until her maids that were so nice, 
To wait on her were fitted, 


But ran herself away alone; 
Which when they heard there was not one, 
But hasted after to be gone, 
As she had been diswitted. 

Hop, and Mop, and Drop so clear, 
Pip, and Trip, and Skip that were, 
To Mab their sovereign ever dear: 

Her special Maids of Honour; 
Fib, and Tib, and Pink, and Pin, 
Tick, and Quick, and Jill, and Jin, 
Tit, and Nit, and Wap, and Win, 

The train that wait upon her. 

Upon a Grasshopper they got, 

And what with Amble, and with Trot, 

For hedge nor ditch they spared not, 

But after her they hie them. 
A cobweb over them they throw, 
To shield the wind if it should blow, 
Themselves they wisely could bestow, 

Lest any should espy them, 

(Lines 139-176.) 


The Sixth Song 

Here then I cannot choose but bitterly exclaim 
Against those fools that all Antiquity defame, 
Because they have found out, some credulous ages laid 
Slight fictions with the truth, whilst truth on rumour stayM; 
And that one forward Time (perceiving the neglect 
A former of her had) to purchase her respect, 
With toys then trimmed her up, the drowsy world t> allure, 
And lent her what it thought might appetite procure 
To man, whose mind doth still variety pursue; 
And therefore to those things whose grounds were very true. 
Though naked yet and bare (not having to content 
The wayward curious ear) gave fictive ornament; 
And fitter thought, the truth they should in question call, 
Than coldly sparing that, the truth should go and all. 



And surely I suppose, that which this froward time 

Doth scandalize her with to be her heinous crime, 

That hath her most preserved; for, still where wit hath found 

A thing most clearly true, it made that fiction's ground: 

Which she supposed might give sure colour to them both: 

From which, as from a root, this wond'red error grow'th 

At which our Critics gird, whose judgments are so strict, 

And he the bravest man who most can contradict 

That which decrepit Age (which forced is to lean 

Upon Tradition) tells; esteeming it so mean, 

As they it quite reject, and for some trifling thing 

(Which Time hath pinned to Truth) they all away will fling. 

These men (for all the world) like our Precisians be, 

Who for some Cross or Saint they in the window see 

Will pluck down all the Church: Soul-blinded sots that creep 

In dirt, and never saw the wonders of the deep. 

Therefore (in my conceit) most rightly served are they 

That to the Roman trust (on his report that stay) 

Our truth from him to learn, as ignorant of ours 

As we were then of his; except 'twere of his powers: 

Who our wise Druids here unmercifully slew; 

Like whom, great Nature's depths no men yet ever knew, 

Nor with such dauntless spirits were ever yet inspired ; 

Who at their proud arrive th' ambitious Romans fired 

When first they heard them preach the soul's immortal state; 

And ev'n in Rome's despite, and in contempt of Fate, 

Grasped hands with horrid death: which out of hate and pride 

They slew, who through the world were rev'renced beside. 

To understand our state, no marvel then though we 
Should so to Caesar seek, in his reports to see 
What anciently we were; when in our infant war, 
Unskilful of our tongue but by interpreter, 
He nothing had of ours which our great Bards did sing, 
Except some few poor words; and those again to bring 
Unto the Latin sounds, and easiness they used, 
By their most filed speech, our British most abused. 
But of our former state, beginning, our descent, 
The wars we had at home, the conquests where we went, 
He never understood. And though the Romans here 
So noble trophies left, as very worthy were 
A people great as they, yet did they ours neglect, 
Long-reared ere they arrived. And where they do object, 
The ruins and records we show, be very small 
To prove ourselves so great: ev'n this the most of all 


('Gainst their objection) seems miraculous to me, 

That yet those should be found so general as they be; 

The Roman, next the Pict, the Saxon, then the Dane, 

All landing in this Isle, each like a horrid rain 

Deforming her; besides the sacrilegious wrack 

Of many a noble book, as impious hands should sack 

The centre, to extirp all knowledge, and exile 

All brave and ancient things, for ever from this Isle; 

Expressing wondrous grief, thus wand 'ring Wye did sing. 

But, back, industrious Muse; obsequiously to bring 
Clear Severn from her source, and tell how she doth strain 
Down her delicious dales; with all the goodly train, 
Brought forth the first of all by Brugan: which to make 
Her party worthy note, next, Dulas in doth take. 
Moylvadian his much love to Severn then to show, 
Upon her Southern side, send likewise (in a row) 
Bright Biga, that brings on her friend and fellow Floyd; 
Next, Dungum; Bacho then is busily employed, 
Tarranon, Carno, Hawes, with Becan, and the Rue, 
In Severn's sovereign banks that give attendance due. 

Thus as she swoops along, with all that goodly train, 
Upon her other bank by Newtown: so again 
Comes Dulas (of whose name so many Rivers be, 
As of none others is) with Mule, prepared to see 
The confluence of their Queen, as on her course she makes: 
Then at Montgomery next clear Kennet in she takes; 
Where little Fledding falls into her broader bank; 
Forked Vurnway, bringing Tur, and Tanot: growing rank, 
She plies her towards the Poole, from the Gomcrian. fields; 
Than which in all our Wales, there is no country yields 
An excellenter horse, so full of natural fire, 
As one of Phoebus' steeds had been that stallion's sire, 
Which first their race begun; or of th' Asturian kind, 
Which some have held to be begotten by the wind, 
Upon the mountain mare; which strongly it receives, 
And in a little time her pregnant part upheaves. 

But, leave we this to such as after wonders long: 
The Muse prepares herself unto another Song. 

(Lines 27 5-370.) 




( Giles, c. 1585 - 1623; Phineas, 1582 - 1650 ) 

THE brothers Giles and Phineas 
Fletcher have become, by custom, 
nearly as inseparable in histories of 
literature as their first cousin John 
Fletcher and Francis Beaumont. 
The custom is justified, although 
they never collaborated; for they 
were both Cambridge men, both 
clergymen, and both ardent fol- 
lowers of Spenser. Giles was born 
about 1585, and was educated at 
Westminster School and Trinity 
College, Cambridge, where he 
graduated in 1606. He remained 
in residence until 1618, becoming 
a minor fellow of his college and 
reader in Greek grammar and 
language. He afterwards became 
rector of Alderton, Suffolk, where 
the bucolic apathy of his parishioners 
is said to have hastened his death. 
Giles wrote a few minor poems, 
such as Canto upon the Death of 
Eliza and one which a recent 
editor has named A Description of 
Encolpius\ but he is remembered 
solely on account of his long and 
elaborate sacred poem Christ's Vic- 
tone and Triumph in Heaven and 
Earth over and after Death (1610). 
This is a noble poem, and although 
its treatment of its sacred theme 
may appear to some readers too 
florid, it is never lacking in reverence 
or in sincere religious feeling. Its 
debt to Spenser is obvious; it is 
written in a modification (some 
would call it a mutilation) of the 
Spenserian stanza. It is one of the 
exceptions which confirm the rule 
that the greatest of all subjects 
almost invariably is treated in the 
meanest type of verse. 

Phineas Fletcher was born in 
1582, and was educated at Eton 
and King's College, Cambridge, 
where he graduated B.A. in 1604, 
M.A. in 1608, and B.D. some years 
later. He was elected a fellow of 
his college, and in 1614 wrote a 
fisher-play, Sicelides, which was to 
have been performed during a visit 
of King James to the university. 
In 1616 Fletcher left Cambridge, 
and was for five years chaplain to 
Sir Henry Willoughby in Derby- 
shire; in 1621 he was presented 
to the rectory of Hilgay, Norfolk, 
where he ended his days in 1650, 
after an uneventful ministry of 
twenty-nine years* duration. 

His first work, excluding one or 
two contributions to miscellanies, 
appeared in 1627. It was a Latin 
poem, Locustae, with an English 
paraphrase of it, The Apollyonists, 
in five cantos. This poem is a 
fierce attack upon the Jesuits. In 
1628 was published Brittairfs Ida, 
an interesting poem which the 
unscrupulous publisher attributed 
to Spenser. Many critics, including 
Grosart and Dr. F. S. Boas, 
attributed this poem on internal 
evidence to Phineas Fletcher, in 
spite of the publisher; the matter 
was settled conclusively in 1923, 
when Miss Ethel Seaton found 
in the library of Sion College a 
manuscript which makes Fletcher's 
authorship certain. It is also cer- 
tain that the poem's correct title 
is Venus and Anchises, though it is 
not easy to displace a title which 
has been in use for three hundred 
years. This MS. also contains a 



very charming Epithalamium, first 
printed in 1926, It is probable that 
Fletcher considered the Epithala- 
mium and Venus and Anchises as 
unbecoming to his cloth, and sup- 
pressed the former while not ob- 
jecting to the latter appearing as 
the work of his master Spenser. In 
1633 appeared Fletcher's chief work, 
The Purple Island or the Isle of 
Man, together with Piscatorie Eclogs 
and Miscellanies. The Eclogs ;are 
not very notable poems, inspired 
by the Italian Sannazaro. The 
Purple Island is not a romance, as 
its title suggests, nor a Manx 
history, as its sub-title might be 
taken to indicate; but a portentous 
allegory. The Island is man's body, 
and the poem is an anatomical 
lecture in verse on the human 
frame, which has veins for its small 

brooks, arteries for its larger streams, 
and so on. It is thus a curious cross 
between topography and anatomy; 
in many places it is both grotesque 
and disgusting; the later books, 
which deal with the mind, are, 
however, superior to the earlier 
books which deal with " this muddy 
vesture of decay ". Occasional 
good passages recompense the per- 
severing reader. Both Fletchers 
rank as ingenious writers with 
great poetical gifts which they did 
not always put to the best use; both 
imitated Spenser in thought, diction, 
and metre; and both influenced con- 
siderably the work of Milton. 

[F. S. Boas, The Poetical Works 
of Giles and Phincas Fletcher; Ethel 
Seaton, Venus and Anchises (Brit- 
tain's I (hi) and oilier Poems by 
Phincas Fletcher.} 

From "Christ's Triumph after Death" 

But now the second Morning, from her bower. 

Began to glister in her beams, and now 

The roses of the day began to flower 

In th' eastern garden; for heav'ns smiling brow 

Half insolent for joy began to show: 
The early Sun came lively dancing out, 
And the bragge lambs ran wantoning about, 

That heav'n and earth might seem in triumph both to shout. 

Th' engladded Spring, forgetful now to weep, 

Began t' eblazon from her leafy bed, 

The waking swallow broke her half-year's sleep, 

And every bush lay deeply purpured 

With violets, the woods' late-wintry head 
Wide flaming primroses set all on fire, 
And his bald trees put on their green attire, 

Among whose infant leaves the joyous birds conspire. 

And now the taller Sons (whom Titan warms) 
Of unshorn mountains, blown with easy winds, 


Dandled the morning's childhood in their arms, 
And, if they chanced to slip the prouder pines, 
The under Cory lets did catch the shines, 

To gild their leaves, saw never happy year 

Such joyful triumph, and triumphant cheer, 
As though the aged world anew created were . 

Say Earth, why hast thou got thee new attire, 

And stick J st thy habit full of daisies red? 

Seems that thou dost to some high thought aspire, 

And some new-found-out Bridegroom mean'st to wed: 

Tell me ye Trees, so fresh apparelled, 

So never let the spiteful Canker waste you, 

So never let the heav'ns with lightning blast you, 

Why go you now so trimly dressed, or whither hast you? 

Answer me Jordan, why thy crooked tide 

So often wanders from his nearest way, 

As though some other way thy stream would slide, 

And fain salute the place where something lay? 

And you sweet birds, that shaded from the ray, 
Sit carolling, and piping grief away, 
The while the lambs to hear you dance, and play, 

Tell me sweet birds, what is it you so fain would say? 

And, thou fair Spouse of Earth, that every year, 
Gett'st such a numerous issue of thy bride, 
How chance thou hotter shin'st, and draw'st more near? 
Sure thou somewhere some worthy sight hast spied, 
That in one place for joy thou canst not bide: 

And you dead Swallows, that so lively now 

Through the flit air your winged passage row, 
How could new life into your frozen ashes flow? 

Yc Primroses, and purple violets, 
Tell me, why blaze ye from your leafy bed, 
And woo men's hands to rent you from your sets, 
As though you would somewhere be carried, 
With fresh perfumes, and velvets garnished? 

But ah, I need not ask, 'tis surely so, 

'You all would to your Saviour's triumph go, 
There would ye all await, and humble homage do. 


There should the Earth herself with garlands new 

And lovely flow'rs embellished adore, 

Such roses never in her garland grew, 

Such lilies never in her breast she wore, 

Like beauty never yet did shine before: 
There should the Sun another Sun behold, 
From whence himself borrows his locks of gold, 

That kindle heav'n, and earth with beauties manifold. 

There might the violet, and primrose sweet 
Beams of more lively, and more lovely grace, 
Arising from their beds of incense meet; 
There should the Swallow see new life embrace 
Dead ashes, and the grave unheal his face, 

To let the living from his bowels creep, 

Unable longer his own dead to keep: 
There heav'n, and earth should see their Lord awake from sleep, 

Their Lord, before by other judged to die, 
Now Judge of all himself, before forsaken 
Of all the world, that from his aid did fly, 
Now by the Saints into their armies taken, 
Before for an unworthy man mistaken, 

Now worthy to be God confest, before 

With blasphemies by all the basest tore, 
Now worshipped by Angels, that him low adore. 

Whose garment was before indipt in blood, 
But now, imbright'ned into heav'nly flame, 
The Sun itself outglitters, though he should 
Climb to the top of the celestial frame, 
And force the stars go hide themselves for shame: 

Before that under earth was buried, 

But now about the heav'ns is carried, 
And there for ever by the Angels heried. 

So fairest Phosphor the bright Morning star, 

But newly washed in the green element, 

Before the drowsy night is half aware, 

Shooting his flaming locks with dew besprent, 

Springs lively up into the orient, 
And the bright drove, fleec'd all in gold, he chases 
To drink, that on the Olympic mountain grazes, 

The while the minor Planets forfeit all their faces. 


So long he wandered in our lower sphere, 
That heav'n began his cloudy stars despise, 
Half envious, to see on earth appear 
A greater light, than flamed in his own skies: 
At length it burst for spite, and out there flies 

A globe of winged Angels, swift as thought, 

That, on their spotted feathers, lively caught 
The sparkling Earth, and to their azure fields it brought. 

The rest, that yet amazed stood below, 

With eyes cast up, as greedy to be fed, 

And hands upheld, themselves to ground did throw, 

So when the Trojan boy was ravished, 

As through th' Idalian woods they say he fled, 

His aged Guardians stood all dismayed, 

Some lest he should have fallen back afraid, 
And some their hasty vows, and timely prayers said. 

Toss up your heads ye everlasting gates, 

And let the Prince of glory enter in: 

At whose brave volley of sidereal States, 

The Sun to blush, and stars grow pale were seen, 

When, leaping first from earth, he did begin 

To climb his Angel's wings; then open hang 

Your crystal doors, so all the chorus sang 
Of heav'nly birds, as to the stars they nimbly sprang. 

Hark how the floods clap their applauding hands, 
The pleasant valleys singing for delight, 
And wanton Mountains dance about the Lands, 
The while the fields, struck with the heav'nly light, 
Set all their flow'rs a-smiling at the sight, 

The trees laugh with their blossoms, and the sound 

Of the triumphant shout of praise, that crown'd 
The flaming Lamb, breaking through heav'n, hath passage found. 

Out leap the antique Patriarchs, all in haste, 
To see the pow'rs of Hell in triumph led, 
And with small stars a garland mterchas'd 
Of olive leaves they bore, to crown his head, 
That was before with thorns degloried, 

After them flew the Prophets, brightly stol'd 

In shining lawn, and wimpled manifold, 
Striking their ivory harps, strung all in chords of gold. 


To which the Saints victorious carols sung, 
Ten thousand Saints at once, that with the sound, 
The hollow vaults of heav'n for triumph rung: 
The Cherubims their clamours did confound 
With all the rest, and clapped their wings around: 
Down from their thrones the Dominations flow, 
And at his feet their crowns and sceptres throw, 
And all the princely Souls fell on their faces low. 

Nor can the Martyrs' wounds them stay behind, 
But out they rush among the heav'nly crowd, 
Seeking their heav'n out of their heav'n to find, 
Sounding their silver trumpets out so loud, 
That the shrill noise broke through the starry cloud, 

**w mj f 

And all the virgin Souls, in pure array, 
Came dancing forth, and making joyous play; 
So him they lead along into the courts of day. 

So him they lead into the courts of clay, 

Where never war, nor wounds abide him more, 

But in that house, eternal peace doth play, 

Aquieting the souls, that new before 

Their way to heav'n through their own blood did score, 

But now, estranged from all misery, 

As far as heav'n, and earth cliscoastcd lie, 
Swelter in quiet waves of immortality. 

(Stansas 1-20.) 

From " Venus and Anchises" 

(Brittain's Ida) 


The Argument 

The lover's sad despairing plaints 
Bright Venus with his love acquaints; 
Sweetly importun'd, he doth show, 
From whom proceeded! this his woe. 

Yet never durst his faint and coward heart 
(Ah, Fool! faint heart fair lady ne'er coulcl win) 
Assail fair Venus with his new-learnt art, 
But kept his love and burning flame within, 


Which more flamed out the more he pressed it in: 
And thinking oft how just she might disdain him, 
While some cool myrtle shade did entertain him, 

Thus sighing would he sit, and sadly would he plain him: 


" Ah, fond and hapless Boy! nor know I whether 
More fond or hapless more, that all so high 
Hast placed thy heart, where love and fate together 
May never hope to end thy misery, 
Nor yet thy self dare wish a remedy! 

All hindrances (alas!) conspire to let it. 

Ah, fond, and hapless Boy! if can'st not get it! 

In thinking to forget, at length learn to forget it: 

11 Ah, far too fond but much more hapless Swain! 

Seeing thy love can be forgotten never, 

Serve and observe thy love with willing pain; 

And though in vain thy love thou do persever, 

Yet all in vain do thou adore her ever. 

No hope can crown thy hopes so far aspiring, 

Nor dares thyself desire thine own desiring, 

Yet live thou in her love and die in her admiring." 

Thus oft the hopeless boy complaining lies: 
But she, that well could guess his sad lamenting, 
(Who can conceal love from Love's mother's eyes?) 
Did not disdain to give his love contenting; 
Cruel the soul that feeds on soul's tormenting: 

Nor did she scorn him, though not nobly born, 

(Love is nobility) nor could she scorn 

That with so noble skill her title did adorn. 

One day it chanced, thrice happy day and chance! 
While Loves were with the Graces sweetly sporting, 
And to fresh music sounding play and dance, 
And Cupid's self, with shepherd's boys consorting, 
Laughed at their pretty sport and simple courting, 
Fair Venus seats the fearful boy close by her, 
Where never Phoebus' jealous looks might eye her, 
And bids this boy his mistress and her name descry her. 

Long time the youth bound up in silence stood, 
While hope and fear with hundred thoughts begun 
Fit prologue to his speech; and fearful blood 

VOL. II. 37 


From heart and face with these post-tidings run, 
That either now he's made, or now undone; 

At length his trembling words, with fear made weak, 

Began his too long silence thus to break, 

While from his humble eyes first reverence seemed to speak, 

" Fair Queen of Love! my life thou may'st command, 

Too slender price for all thy former grace 

Which I receive at thy too bounteous hand; 

But never dare I speak her name and face; 

My life is much less prized than her disgrace: 
And, for I know if I her name relate 
I purchase anger, I must hide her state, 
Unless thou wear by Styx, I purchase not her hate." 

Fair Venus well perceived his subtle shift, 

And, swearing gentle patience, gently smiled, 

While thus the boy pursued his former drift: 

" No tongue was ever yet so sweetly skilled, 

Nor greatest orator so highly styled, 
Though helped with all the choicest arts direction, 
But when he durst describe her heaven's perfection, 
By his imperfect praise dispraised his imperfection. 

"Her form is as her self, perfect coelcstial, 

No mortal spot her heavenly frame disgraces: 

Beyond compare such nothing is terrestrial; 

More sweet than thought or powerful wish embraces; 

The map of heaven, the sum of all her graces: 
But if you wish more truly lirnn'd to eye her, 
Than fainting speech or words can well descry her, 
Look in a glass, and there most perfect you may spy her.** 

From "The Purple Island" 

Six goodly Cities built with suburbs round, 
Do fair adorn this lower region: 
The first Koilia, whose extremest bound 
On this side bordered by the Splenion, 

On that by sovereign Hepar's large commands: 

The merry Diazome above it stands, 
To both these joined in league and never failing bands. 


The form as when with breath our bag-pipes rise, 
And swell round-wise, and long, yet long-wise more; 
Framed to the most capacious figure's guise: 
For 'tis the Island's garner; here its store 

Lies treasured up, which well prepared it sends 

By secret path that to th' Arch-city bends; 
Which making it more fit, to all the Isle dispends. 

Far hence at foot of rocky Cephal's hills 
This City's steward dwells in vaulted stone; 
And twice a day KoihVs store-house fills 
With certain rent and due provision: 

Aloft he fitly dwells in arched cave; 

Which to describe I better time shall have, 
When that fair mount I sing, and his white curdy wave. 

At that cave's mouth twice sixteen porters stand, 
Receivers of the customary rent; 
Of each side four the foremost of the band 
Whose office to divide what in is sent: 

Straight other four break it in pieces small; 

And at each hand twice five, which grinding all, 
Fit it for convoy, and this City's arsenal. 

From thence a Groom with wondrous volubility 

Delivers all unto near officers, 

Of nature like himself, and like agility; 

At each side four, that are the governors 

To see the victuals shipped at fittest tide ; 

Which straight from thence with prosp'rous channel slide, 
And in Koilia's port with nimble oars glide. 

The haven, framed with wondrous sense and art, 
Opens itself to all that entrance seek; 
Yet if ought back would turn, and thence depart, 
With thousand w r rinkles shuts the ready creek: 

But when the rent is slack, it rages rife, 

And routines in itself with civil strife: 
Thereto a little groom eggs it with sharpest knife. 

Below dwells in this City's market-place 
The Island's common cook, Concoction; 
Common to all; therefore in middle space 
Is quartered fit in just proportion; 


Whence never from his labour he retires ; 
No rest he asks, or better change requires: 
Both night and day he works, ne'er sleeps, nor sleep desires. 

That heat, which in his furnace ever fumeth, 
Is nothing like to our hot parching fire; 
Which all consuming, self at length consumeth; 
But moist 'ning flames a gentle heat inspire, 

Which sure some in-born neighbour to him lendeth; 

And oft the bordering coast fit fuel sendeth, 
And oft the rising fume, which down again dcscemleth 

Like to a pot, where under hovering 
Divided flames, the iron sides entwining, 
Above is stopped with close-laid covering, 
Exhaling fumes to narrow straits confining; 

So doubling heat, his duty doubly spccdcth: 

Such is the fire Concoction's vessel necdcth, 
Who daily all the Isle with fit provision fccdcth. 

There many a groom the busy Cook attends 

In under offices, and several place: 

This gathers up the scum, and thence it sends 

To be cast out; and liquors base, 
Another garbage, which the kitchen cloys, 
And divers filth, whose scent the place annoys, 

By divers secret ways in under-sinks convoys. 

(Canto 77, slansds zj to 36.) 


( 1561 - 1626 ) 

FRANCIS BACON was born in Lon- 
don in 1561. His father was Sir 
Nicholas Bacon, Lord -Keeper of 
the Great Seal, and Lord Burleigh 
was his uncle by marriage. Bacon 
entered Trinity College, Cambridge, 
at the abnormally early age of 

twelve, and left three years later, 
without a degree and with small 
reverence for Aristotle and none 
for his medieval followers. In 1575 
he was admitted to Gray's Inn; 
from 1576 to 1579 he was at Paris 
in the suite of Sir Amyas Paulet, 



the English ambassador. The 
death of his father called him back 
to England, and being left in 
straitened circumstances he zeal- 
ously pursued the study of law, and 
was admitted a barrister in 1582. 
In 1584 he became member of 
Parliament for Melcombe Regis, 
and soon after drew up a letter of 
advice to Queen Elizabeth, an able 
political memoir, which did not 
further its author's promotion. In 
1586 he was member for Taunton, 
in 1589 for Liverpool, and he con- 
tinued to sit in the House of 
Commons until he was elevated to 
the peerage. His talents and his 
connexion with Burleigh seemed 
to mark him out for high office; 
but his promotion was slow, he 
offended the queen by an un- 
characteristic display of frankness, 
and his uncle was apparently jealous 
of his great gifts. He attached him- 
self to the Earl of Essex, who 
endeavoured to secure for him the 
post of attorney-general, and, hav- 
ing failed in that, the solicitor- 
generalship, which was also be- 
stowed elsewhere. Essex, with his 
usual generosity, compensated Bacon 
by presenting him with an estate 
which was afterwards sold for 
1800. Bacon, however, forgot his 
obligations to his benefactor, and 
not only abandoned him as soon 
as he had fallen into disgrace, but 
without being obliged took part 
against him in his trial (1601), was 
active in securing his conviction, 
and, after his execution, blackened 
his memory in a pamphlet, which 
was, however, officially " edited " 
before publication. Bacon's con- 
duct has sometimes been repre- 
sented as worse than it was; some 
of his admirers, on the other hand, 
have tried to make out that he 

played the part of a blameless and 
patriotic barrister. The truth is 
that he behaved not like a scoundrel, 
but like a cold-hearted opportunist. 
When James I came to the throne, 
Bacon thought his opportunity had 
come, and was assiduous in court- 
ing the king's favour. He was 
knighted, along with three hundred 
others, at the coronation in 1603; 
in 1604 he was appointed King's 
Counsel, with a pension of 60; 
in 1606 he made a marriage which 
was prudent from the pecuniary 
point of view. At the age of forty- 
six he at last began to mount the 
ladder at which he had gazed in 
vain for many years; he was 
appointed Solicitor- General. In 
1613 he became Attorney- General; 
in 1617 he was made Lord- Keeper, 
and in 1618 Lord High Chancellor 
and Baron Verulam. In this year 
he lent his influence to bring about 
the execution of Raleigh. In 1621 
he was advanced a step in the 
peerage and became Viscount St. 
Albans. As he himself said in one 
of his essays, " Prosperity doth best 
discover vice ", and, soon after 
reaching the zenith of his career, 
he fell like Lucifer, never to rise 
again. A new Parliament was 
formed in 1621, and the Lord 
Chancellor was accused before the 
House of bribery, corruption, and 
other malpractices. It is difficult 
to ascertain the full extent of his 
guilt, but he seems to have been 
unable to justify himself; his nerve 
and his health gave way, and he 
handed in a " confession and 
humble submission ", throwing him- 
self on the mercy of the Peers. He 
was condemned to pay a fine of 
40,000 and to be committed to 
the Tower during the king's pleas- 
ure; he was also declared incom- 


petent to hold any office of state, 
and was banished from court for 
ever. The sentence, however, was 
never carried out. The fine was 
remitted almost as soon as imposed, 
and he was imprisoned for only a 
few days. He survived his fall 
five years, occupying himself with 
his literary and scientific works, 
and vainly hoping for political 
employment. His death was caused 
by his devotion to science. He was 
experimenting in the art of re- 
frigeration, and when stuffing a 
fowl with snow caught a chill, 
which turned into a fatal attack of 
bronchitis. He died on Easter 
Day, 1626. 

To turn from Bacon's life to his 
works is to turn from a sordid and 
melancholy spectacle to one of the 
greatest glories of England and 
Europe. His celebrated Essays 
first appeared in 1597; there are, 
however, only ten in this edition; 
that of 1612 contained thirty-eight, 
and the final edition of 1625 fifty- 
eight. The Essays immediately 
became and have always remained 
very popular; they are packed 
with thought" infinite riches in a 
little room "and their brilliance 
is so great that at times it is almost 
cloying. The treatise on The 
Advancement of Learning appeared 
in 1605; it is a wise and weighty 
exposition of some of Bacon's 
philosophy, couched in the choicest 
English. His Life of Henry VII 
(1622) was the first-fruits of his 
compulsory leisure. It is an ad- 
mirable historical work, and gives 
a vivid portrait of the king, upon 
which modern historical research 
has done little to improve. Sylva 
Sylvarum and The New Atlantis 
were posthumously published in 
1627; the latter is a fragmentary 

philosophical romance, of great 
literary and scientific interest. "Just 
as ^ Campion, one of our greatest 
lyrists, disbelieved in the use of 
rhyme, in which he excelled, so did 
Bacon, one of the greatest masters 
of English prose, mistrust English 
as a permanent vehicle for thought. 
His greatest philosophical works 
were written in Latin. DC Sapientia 
Veterum. appeared in 1609; it is 
a somewhat supersubtle interpre- 
tation of ancient mythology. His 
philosophic masterpiece, the Novum 
Qrganiim, appeared in 1620, and 
De Augmcntis Scicntiarum^ a greatly 
amplified Latin version of The 
Advancement of learning, in 1623. 
These and other Latin works, 
although they are of immense 
importance in the history of thought, 
cannot be discussed at any length 
in a book on English literature. 

Bacon was the offspring of a 
Machiavellian father and a Cal- 
vinistic mother, and some of his 
peculiar notions of morality may 
have been inherited. He always had 
a high sense of his own outstanding 
abilities; he might have said that, 
like the Younger Gato, he was born 
not for himself but for the whole 
world; and he may have con- 
sidered himself above the rules of 
conduct which are binding upon 
ordinary men. In some respects he 
was a thorough man of the world; 
in other respects he seemed unable 
to grasp simple facts. He failed to 
realize that his disgrace in 1621 was 
permanent; and in spite of the 
immense sums of money which he 
earned honestly and otherwise, he 
never managed to keep clear of 
debt, and died owing 22,000. He 
set an undue value upon pomp and 
circumstance, upon rank and title, 
things which men of much less 



ability can afford to despise. Bacon 
was great as an historian, a writer 
on politics, and a rhetorician; but 
it is as the father of the inductive 
method in science, as the powerful 
exponent of the principle that facts 
must be observed and carefully 
collected before theorizing, that he 
occupies the position he holds 
among the world's great ones. The 
key-notes of his philosophy were 
Utility and Progress. He held, 
with the King of Brobdingnag, 
that whoever could make two ears 
of corn or two blades of grass grow 
where only one grew before, de- 
served well of mankind. Like 
Heracles in legend or like Epicurus 
in the ancient world, Bacon was a 
liberator of the human race. The 
philosophy of the schoolmen led 
nowhere; every student of it soon 
found himself lost in a maze of 
superscholastic subtleties. Bacon's 
philosophy was practical, the ends 
which it proposed were attainable; 
it was also progressive, so that every 
generation of those who have 
followed Bacon's methods begins 
where the previous generation left 

off. To his methods we owe 
directly or indirectly most of the 
important inventions of the nine- 
teenth and twentieth centuries. 
Bacon took all knowledge to be his 
province, and his omniscience puts 
to shame the narrow specialism of 
to-day, with its imperfect system of 
liaison officers between the various 
branches of science. As a stylist 
Bacon is eminent; few English 
writers possess a more pregnant 
style. He is a great rhetorician in 
every sense of that word. 

It should be noted that the title 
" Lord Bacon " is incorrect, though 
almost (not quite) sanctioned by 
usage. Bacon was Lord Yerulam 
and afterwards Viscount St. Albans; 
it is as incorrect to call him " Lord 
Bacon " as it would be to call Lord 
Hailsham, his remote successor In 
the Chancellorship, c< Lord Hogg ". 

[J. Spedding, R. L. Ellis, D. D. 
Heath, Works, Letters and Life of 
Bacon] E. A. Abbott, Bacon; R. 
W. Church, Bacon (English Men 
of Letters Series); T. Fowler, 
Bacon; Sir Sidney Lee, Great 
Englishmen of the Sixteenth Century.} 


Of Marriage and Single Life 

He that hath Wife and Children hath given Hostages to Fortune; 
For they are Impediments to great Enterprises, either of Vertue, or 
Mischief e. Certainly, the best workes, and of greatest Merit for the 
Publike, have proceeded from the unmarried or Childlesse Men, which, 
both in Affection and Meanes, have married and endowed the Publike. 
Yet it were great Reason that those that have Children should have 
greatest care of future times, unto which, they know, they must transmit 
their dearest pledges. Some there are who, though they lead a Single 
Life, yet their Thoughts doe end with themselves, and account future 
Times Impertinences. Nay, there are some other that account Wife and 
Children but as Bills of charges. Nay more, there are some foolish rich 


covetous Men that take a pride in having no Children, because they 
may be thought so much the richer, For, perhaps, they have heard 
some talke, Such an one is a great rich Man] And another except to it, 
Yea, but he hath a great charge of Children] As if it were an Abatement 
to his Riches. But the most ordinary cause of a Single Life is Liberty; 
especially in certaine Selfe-pleasing and humorous Mindes, which are 
so sensible of every restraint as they will goe ncare to thinke their Girdles 
and Garters to be Bonds and Shackles. Unmarried Men are best Friends, 
best Masters, best Servants, but not alwayes best Subjects; For they 
are light to runne away, And almost all Fugitives are of that Condition. 
A Single Life doth well with Church men; For Charity will hardly water 
the Ground, where it must first fill a Poole. It is indifferent for Judges 
and Magistrates; For if they be facile and corrupt, you shall have a 
Servant five times worse than a Wife. For Souldiers, I findc the Gencralls 
commonly, in their Hortatives, put Men in minde of their Wives and 
Children: And I thinke the Despising of Marriage amongst the Turkes, 
maketh the vulgar souldier more base. Certainly, Wife and Children 
are a kinde of Discipline of Humanity; And single Men, though they 
be many times more Charitable, because their Meanes are Icssc exhaust, 
yet, on the other side, they are more cruell and hard hearted, (good to 
make severe Inquisitors), because their Tendernesse is not so oft called 
upon. Grave Natures, led by Custome and thcrforc constant, are 
commonly loving Husbands; As was said of Ulysses, Velulam si/am 
praetulit Immortalitati. Chast Women are often Proud and f reward, as 
Presuming upon the Merit of their Chastity. It is one of the best Bonds, 
both of Chastity and Obedience, in the Wife, if She thinke her Husband 
Wise; which She will never doe, if She finde him Jealous. Wives are 
young Men's Mistresses, Companions for middle Age, and old Men's 
Nurses: So as a Man may have a Quarrell to marry, when he will. But 
yet, he was reputed one of the wise Men, that made Answer to the 
Question, When a Man should marry? A young Man not yet, an Elder 
Man not at all. It is often seene that bad Husbands have very good 
Wives; whether it be that it rayseth the Price of their Husbands' Kind- 
nesse, when it comes; Or that the Wives take a Pride in their Patience. 
But this never failes, if the bad Husbands were of their owne choosing, 
against their friends* consent; For then they will be sure to make good 
their owne Folly. 

Of Love 

The Stage is more beholding to Love then the Life of Man. For 
as to the Stage, Love is ever matter of Comedies, and now and then 
of Tragedies: But in Life it doth much mischiefe, Sometimes like a Syren, 
Sometimes like a Fury. You may observe that amongst all the great 


and worthy Persons, (whereof the memory remaineth, either Ancient 
or Recent), there is not One that hath beene transported to the mad 
degree of Love; which shewes that great Spirits and great Businesse 
doe keepe out this weake Passion. You must except, neverthelesse, 
Marcus Antonius the halfe Partner of the Empire of Rome, and Appius 
Claudius the Decemvir and Law-giver; Whereof the former was indeed 
a Voluptuous Man and Inordinate; but the latter was an Austere and 
wise man: And therefore it seemes (though rarely) that Love can finde 
entrance, not only into an open Heart, but also into a Heart well fortified, 
if watch be not well kept. It is a poore Saying of Epicurus, Satis magnum 
Alter Alteri Theatrum sumus: As if Man, made for the contemplation of 
Heaven and all Noble Objects, should doe nothing but kneele before a 
little Idoll, and make himselfe subject, though not of the Mouth (as 
Beasts are) yet of the Eye, which was given him for higher Purposes. 
It is a strange Thing to note the Excesse of this Passion, And how it 
braves the Nature and value of things, by this, that the Speaking in a 
perpetuall Hyperbole is comely in nothing but in Love. Neither is it 
meerely in the Phrase; For whereas it hath beene well said that the Arch- 
flatterer, with whom all the petty Flatterers have Intelligence, is a Man's 
Selfe, Certainly the Lover is more. For there was never Proud Man 
thought so absurdly well of himselfe as the Lover doth of the Person 
loved: And therefore it was well said, That it is impossible to love and 
to be wise. Neither doth this weaknesse appeare to others onely, and 
not to the Party Loved, But to the Loved most of all, except the Love 
be reciproque. For it is a true Rule, that Love is ever rewarded, either 
with the Reciproque, or with an inward and secret Contempt. By how 
much the more Men ought to beware of this Passion, which loseth not 
only other things but itselfe. As for the other losses, the Poet's Relation 
doth well figure them; That he that preferred Helena, quitted the Gifts 
of Juno and Pallas. For whosoever esteemeth too much of Amorous 
Affection, quitteth both Riches and Wisedome. This Passion hath his 
Flouds in the very times of Weaknesse, which are great Prosperitie and 
great Adversitie, though this latter hath beene lesse observed: Both 
which times kindle Love, and make it more fervent, and therefore shew 
it to be the Childe of Folly. They doe best, who, if they cannot but 
admit Love, yet make it keepe Quarter, And sever it wholly from their 
serious Affaires and Actions of life; For if it checke once with Businesse, 
it troubleth Men's Fortunes, and maketh Men that they can no wayes 
be true to their owne Ends. I know not how, but Martiall Men are given 
to Love: I thinke it is but as they are given to Wine, For Perils commonly 
aske to be paid in Pleasures. There is in Man's Nature a secret Inclination 
and Motion towards love of others, which, if it be not spent upon some 
one or a few, doth naturally spread it selfe towards many, and maketh 
men become Humane and Charitable, As it is seene sometime in Friars. 


Nuptiall love maketh Mankindc; Friendly love pcrfcctclh It; but Wanton 
love Corrupteth and Imbaseth it. 

Of Studies 

Studies serve for Delight, for Ornament, and for Ability. Their 
Chiefe Use for Delight is in Privatencsse and Retiring; For Ornament, 
is in Discourse; And for Ability, is in the Judgement and Disposition 
of Businesse. For Expert Men can Execute, and perhaps Judge of 
particulars, one by one; But the generall Counsels, and the Hots and 
Marshalling of Affaires, come best from those that are Learned. To 
spend too much time in Studies is Sloth; To use them too much for 
Ornament is Affectation; To make Judgement wholly by their Rules 
is the Humour of a Scholler. They perfect Nature, and arc perfected 
by Experience: For Naturall Abilities arc like Naturall Plants, that 
need Proyning by Study: And Studies themselves doe give forth Direc- 
tions too much at Large, except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty 
Men Contemne Studies; Simple Men Admire them; And Wise Men 
Use them: For they teach not their ownc Use; But that is a Wisdome 
without them and above them, won by Observation. Readc not to Con- 
tradict and Confute; Nor to Beleeve and Take for granted; Nor to Finde 
Talke and Discourse; But to weigh and Consider. Some Hookcs arc to 
be Tasted, Others to be Swallowed, and Some Few to be Chewed and 
Digested: That is, some Bookes are to be read oncly in Parts; Others 
to be read but not Curiously; And some Few to be read wholly, and with 
Diligence and Attention. Some Bookes also may be read by Deputy, 
and Extracts made of them by Others: But that would be oncly in the 
lesse important Arguments, and the Meaner Sort of Bookes: else 
distilled Bookes are like Common distilled Waters, Flashy Things. Read- 
ing maketh a Full Man; Conference a Ready Man; And Writing an 
Exact Man. And therefore, If a Man Write little, he had need have a 
Great memory; If he Conferre little, he had need have a Present Wit; 
And if he Reade little, he had need have much Cunning, to sccme to 
know that he doth not. Histories make Men Wise; Poets Witty; The 
Mathematicks Subtill; Naturall Philosophy decpc; Morall Grave, 
Logick and Rhetorick Able to Contend. Abeunt studia in Mores. Nay, 
there is no Stond or Impediment in the Wit but may be wrought out by 
Fit Studies; Like as Diseases of the Body may have Appropriate Exercises. 
Bowling is good for the Stone and Reines; Shooting for the Lungs and 
Breast; Gentle Walking for the Stomacke; Riding for the Head; And 
the like. So if a Man's Wit be Wandring, let him Study the Mathematicks; 
For in Demonstrations, if his Wit be called away never so little, he must 
begin again: If his Wit be not Apt to distinguish or find differences, 
let him Study the Schoole-men; For they are Cymini sec tores. If he 


be not Apt to beat over Matters, and to call up one Thing to Prove and 
Illustrate another, let him Study the Lawyers' Cases: So every Defect 
of the Minde may have a Speclall Receit. 

From " The New Atlantis" 

The Strangers' House is a fair and spacious house, built of brick, 
of somewhat a bluer colour than our brick; and with handsome windows, 
some of glass, some of a kind of cambric oiled. He brought us first into 
a fair parlour above stairs, and then asked us, what number of persons 
we were? and how many sick? We answered, we were in all (sick and 
whole) one and fifty persons, whereof our sick were seventeen. He 
desired us to have patience a little, and to stay till he came back to us, 
which was about an hour after; and then he led us to see the chambers 
which were provided for us, being in number nineteen. They having 
cast it (as it seemeth) that four of those chambers, which were better 
than the rest, might receive four of the principal men of our company; 
and lodge them alone by themselves; and the other fifteen chambers 
were to lodge us, two and two together. The chambers were handsome 
and cheerful chambers, and furnished civilly. Then he led us to a long 
gallery, like a dorture, where he showed us all along the one side (for 
the other side was but wall and window) seventeen cells, very neat ones, 
having partitions of cedar wood. Which gallery and cells, being in all 
forty (many more than we needed), were instituted as an infirmary for 
sick persons. And he told us withal, that as any of our sick waxed well, 
he might be removed from his cell to a chamber: for which purpose 
there were set forth ten spare chambers, besides the number we spake 
of before. This done, he brought us back to the parlour, and lifting up 
his cane a little (as they do when they give any charge or command), 
said to us, " Ye are to know that the custom of the land requireth, that 
after this day and to-morrow (which we give you for removing your 
people from your ship), you are to keep within doors for three days. 
But let it not trouble you, nor do not think yourselves restrained, but 
rather left to your ease and rest. You shall want nothing, and there are 
six of our people appointed to attend you for any business you may have 
abroad." We gave him thanks with all affection and respect, and said, 
" God surely is manifested in this land." We offered him also twenty 
pistolets; but he smiled, and only said; "What? twice paid?" And 
so he left us. 

Soon after our dinner was served in; which was right good viands, 
both for bread and meat: better than any collegiate diet that I have 
known in Europe. We had also drink of three sorts, all wholesome and 


good; wine of the grape; a drink of grain, suck as is with us our ale, 
but more clear; and a kind of cider made of a fruit of that country; a 
wonderful pleasing and refreshing drink. Besides, there were brought 
in to us great store of those scarlet oranges for our sick; which (they 
said) were an assured remedy for sickness taken at sea. There was given 
us also a box of small grey or whitish pills, which they wished our sick 
should take, one of the pills every night before sleep; which (they said) 
would hasten their recovery. 


(1574-? 1640) 

JOHN DAY was born at Cawston, 
Norfolk, in 1574, and was educated 
at Ely and at Caius College, Cam- 
bridge, whence he was expelled for 
the not very heinous offence of mis- 
appropriating a book. He became 
one of Henslowe's hack writers, and 
wrote over twenty plays in colla- 
boration with Chettle, Haughton, 
Dekker, Wentworth Smith, Hath- 
way, Rowley, Wilkins, and others. 
He seems to have been continually 
impecunious, to have been anxious 
to take holy orders late in life, and 
to have died in or about 1640. 
Little else is known of him, except 
that Jonson classed him with others 
as a " rogue " and " base fellow ". 
We possess six plays which are 
his in part or wholly. The Blind 
Beggar of Bednal Green (c. 1600) is 
by Day and Chettle; it is not a 
good play. Day, William Rowley, 
and Wilkins collaborated to write 
The Travels of the Three English 
Brothers (1607). Day wrote un- 
assisted the three admirably written 
comedies of The Isle of Gulls (1605), 
based upon Sidney's Arcadia, Law 
Tricks (1606), and Humour out of 
Breath (1607). The dialogue in 

these comedies is excellently viva- 
cious, and is much more adroitly 
managed than the plot. Day's work 
in some respects resembles that of 
Lyly; it is mildly cuphuistic, and 
at its best is not of the earth, 
earthy. Character-drawing is not 
his strong point. The titles of 
some of Day's lost dramas, such as 
The Black Dog of Newgate^ make 
us " pine for what is not ", though 
it is not invariably true of old plays 
that " the inside of the letter is 
always the cream of the corre- 
spondence ". Day is chiefly re- 
membered for his Parliament of 
Bees (c. 1607), which is not a play 
as it is sometimes nor a masque as 
it is often called; it stands to a 
masque in the same relationship 
which a closet- drama bears to a 
stage-play. It is an altogether 
charming piece of graceful and 
fantastic allegory. Day gives us the 
impression of having had a delicate 
wit, something too gentle for the 
workaday world, and of having 
written for a livelihood, not because 
he felt $ strong inward desire to 
write. His works have been edited 
by A. H, Bullen. 


From "The Parliament of Bees" 

(ULANIA, a female "Bee, confesses her passion for MELETUS, who 

loves ARETHTJSA.) 

not a village fly, nor meadow bee, 
That traffics daily on the neighbouring plain, 
But will report," how all the winged train 
Have sued to me for love; when we have flown 
In swarms out to discover fields new-blown. 
Happy was he could find the forwardest tree, 
And cull the choicest blossoms out for me; 
Of all their labours they allow 'd me some 
And (like my champions) mann'd me out, and home: 
Yet I loved none of them. Philon, a bee 
Well-skill *d in verse and amorous poetry, 
As we have sat at work, both of one rose, 
Has humm'd sweet canzons, both in verse and prose, 
Which I ne'er minded. Astrophel, a bee 
(Although not so poetical as he) 
Yet in his full invention quick and ripe, 
In summer evenings, on his well-tuned pipe, 
Upon a woodbine blossom in the sun, 
(Our hive being clean-swept, and our day's work done,) 
Would play me twenty several tunes; yet I 
Nor minded Astrophel, nor his melody. 
Then there's Amniter, for whose love fair Leade 
(That pretty bee) flies up and down the mead 
With rivers in her eyes; without deserving 
Sent me trim acorn bowls of his own carving, 
To drink May dews and mead in. Yet none of these, 
My hive-born playfellows and fellow bees, 
Could I affect, until this strange bee came; 
And him I love with such an ardent flame, 
Discretion cannot quench. 

He labours and toils, 
Extracts more honey out of barren soils 
Than twenty lazy drones. I have heard my father, 
Steward of the hive, profess that he had rather 
Lose half the swarm than him. If a bee, poor or weak, 
Grows faint on his way, or by misfortune break 
A wing or leg against a twig; alive, 
Or dead, he'll bring into the master's hive 


Him and his burthen. But the other day, 

On the next plain there grew a fatal fray 

Betwixt the wasps and us; the \viuil grew high, 

And a rough storm raged so impetuously, 

Our bees could scarce keep wing; then, fell such rain, 

It made our colony forsake the plain, 

And fly to garrison: yet still he stood, 

And 'gainst the whole swarm made his party good; 

And at each blow he gave, cried out llis Vow, 

His Vow, and Aretkusa!- On each bough 

And tender blossom he engraves her name 

With his sharp sting. To Arcthusa's fame 

He consecrates his actions; all his worth 

Is only spent to character her forth, 

On damask roses, and the leaves of pines, 

I have seen him write such amorous moving lines 

In Arethusa's praise, as my poor heart 

Has, when I read them, envied her desert; 

And wept and sigh'd to think that he should be 

To her so constant, yet not pity me. 

(PROREX, Viceroy of Bees under King OBERON, describes 

his large prerogative.) 

To Us (who, warranted by Oberon's love, 

Write Ourself Master Bee), both Held and grove, 

Garden and orchard, lawns and flowery meads, 

(Where the amorous wind plays with the golden heads 

Of waaton cowslips, daisies ia their prime, 

Sun-loving marigolds; the blossom *d thyme, 

The blue-veia'd violets and the damask rose; 

The stately lily, mistress of all those) ; 

Are allow'd and given, by Oberon's free arced, 

Pasture for me, and all my swarms to feed. 

(Oberon holds a court, in which he sentences the Wasp, the Drone, and 
the Humble Bee, for divers offences against the Commonwealth of Sees.) 

OBERON PROREX, his viceroy, and other Bees 

And whither must these flies be sent? 



To everlasting banishment. 
Underneath two hanging rocks 
(Where babbling Echo sits and mocks 
Poor travellers) there lies a grove, 
With whom the sun's so out of love, 
He never smiles on't: pale Despair 
Calls it his monarchal chair. 
Fruits half -ripe hang rivell 'd and shrunk 
On broken arms, torn from the trunk: 
The moorish pools stand empty, left 
By water, stolen by cunning theft 
To hollow banks, driven out by snakes, 
Adders, and newts, that man these lakes: 
The mossy leaves, half-s welter 'd, served 
As beds for vermin hunger-sterved: 
The woods are yew-trees, bent and broke 
By whirlwinds; here and there an oak, 
Half-cleft with thunder. To this grove 
We banish them. 

Some mercy, Jove ! 


You should have cried so in your youth 
When Chronos and his daughter Truth 
Sojourn J d among you; when you spent 
Whole years in riotous merriment. 
Thrusting poor Bees out of their hives, 
Seizing both honey, wax, and lives. 
You should have call'd for mercy when 
You impaled common blossoms; when, 
Instead of giving poor Bees food, 
You ate their flesh, and drank their blood. 
Fairies, thrust them to their fate. 

(OBERON then confirms PROREX in his government , 
and breaks up session.} 


now adieu ! 
Prorex shall again renew 



His potent reign: the massy world, 
Which in glittering orbs is hurl'tl 
About the poles, be lord of: we 
Only reserve our royalty 
Field Music, Oberon must away; 
For us our gentle fairies stay: 
In the mountains and the rocks 
Well hunt the gray, and little fox, 
Who destroy our lambs at feed, 
And spoil the nests where turtles breed 

(? 1559 -1634) 

GEORGE CHAPMAN was born near 
Hitchin about 1559. He has been 
claimed as an alumnus by both 
Universities, but in all probability 
belonged to neither, though he was 
a good scholar and ranked next to 
Jonson, with a considerable interval, 
however, as the most learned of 
Elizabethan poets. We do not know 
much about his life, except that he 
was impecunious, and that he never 
won the position to which he 
thought his merits and attainments 
entitled him. He published The 
Shadow of Night: Containing Two 
Poetical Hymns in 1594 an obscure 
and unintelligible work. Ovid's 
Banquet of Sense appeared in the 
following year, together with some 
difficult sonnets and other poems. 
In 1598 he finished Marlowe's 
exquisite but incomplete para- 
phrase of Hero and Lewder; his 
continuation, while it can hardly 
be called a " lame and impotent 
conclusion ", is not worthy of what 
preceded it, as Chapman himself 
modestly confessed when he wrote 
of " that partly excellent Poem of 

Master Marlowe's ". Some time 
before 1598, when Meres published 
his Palladia Tamia, Chapman began 
to write for the stage. The Blind 
Beggar of Alexandria (printed 1598) 
and An Humorous J)ay'$ Mirth 
(printed 1599) arc ineffective plays, 
tlac humour and mirth of the latter 
being restricted to its title. All 
Fools (printed 1605) is a much 
better play, in which Terence's 
matter and Jonson's manner are 
blended and suffused with some- 
thing that is Chapman's own. In 
1605 Chapman collaborated with 
Jonson and Marston in the ad- 
mirable but unfortunate comedy 
Eastward Ho! (sec Jonson}. The 
Gentleman Usher and Monsieur 
d' Olive (both 1606) are two excel- 
lent if somewhat unequal comedies. 
Bussy d'Ambois, the most popular 
of Chapman's tragedies, appeared 
in 1607, and its sequel, The Revenge 
of Bussy d'Ambois, appeared some 
time before 1613. In 1608 ap- 
peared the double tragedy of The 
Conspiracy and Tragedy of Charles, 
Duke of Byron. These four trage- 



dies are full of fiery energy and 
richness of phrase and imagery, 
but are lacking in truly dramatic 
qualities. May Day (1611) is an 
amusing farce; The Widow's Tears 
(1612) is based upon the famous 
story of the Matron of Ephesus, an 
ancient Indian tale which Petronius 
first introduced into the Western 
world. Chapman did not write for 
the stage again for many years, his 
next play being a thewless tragedy, 
Ccesar and Pompey (1631). Chap- 
man collaborated once or twice 
with Shirley, and may have written 
some part of one or two other 
plays of slight value which are often 
attributed to him. His single 
masque, which was written for the 
Princess Elizabeth's wedding (1614), 
does not make us sustain Jonson's 
judgment " that next himself only 
Fletcher and Chapman could make 
a Mask ". Chapman was not 
intended by nature to be a drama- 
tist. He never learnt the art of 
handling his puppets with skill. 
He was an admirable gnomic poet, 
and his tragedies are full of that 
" highness and frequency of sen- 
tence " which Jonson praised in a 
tragic poet. Chapman's whole 
intellectual life was governed by 
his admiration for Homer, and 
when he wrote drama its excellences 
were those of epic poetry. 

Chapman is chiefly remembered 
for his rugged but mighty- mouthed 
rendering of " the strong- winged 
music of Homer ", and for having 
been, in all probability, the rival 
poet mentioned in the Sonnets of 
Shakespeare. The translation of 
Homer absorbed many years of his 

long life. The first instalment of 
the Iliad (Books I, II, VII, VIII, 
IX, X, XI) appeared in 1598; the 
complete Iliad appeared in 1611. 
The last twelve books were trans- 
lated in less than fifteen weeks. 
The Iliad is rendered into lines of 
fourteen syllables, and is on the 
whole much more vigorous and 
satisfactory than the Odyssey (1614), 
which is in heroic couplets. The 
Battle of the Frogs and Mice and 
the Homeric Hymns followed in 
1624. Chapman also translated 
Hesiod and the fifth satire of 
Juvenal. He was not an accom- 
plished Greek scholar; though he 
indignantly denied that his version 
of Homer was not translated directly 
from the Greek, he appears to have 
found his author difficult where 
there was no real difficulty. Al- 
though his translation is often 
inaccurate and sometimes grotesque, 
it has a vehemence and fire about 
it w T hich are lacking in other ver- 
sions, and it still remains, taking it 
for all in all, the noblest and most 
Homeric rendering of Homer in 
English verse. Chapman's was a 
proud and turbulent spirit; he 
outlived most of his contempo- 
raries, and was the doyen of Eliza- 
bethan dramatists; he was to some 
extent a cynical and embittered 
man. It was only when he reclined 
on the bosom of the greatest of 
epic poets that his soul knew peace. 
[R. H. Shepherd, The Works of 
George Chapman; A. Acheson, 
Shakespeare and the Rival Poet] 
A. C. Swinburne, Contemporaries 
of Shakespeare] J. M. Robertson, 
Shakespeare and Chapman.] 



Homer's Iliads 


She ran to Hector, and with her, tender of heart mid hand, 
Her son, borne in his nurse's arms; when like a heavenly sign, 
Compact of many golden stars, the princely child did shine; 
Whom Hector call'd Scamandrius; but whom the town did name 
Astyanax; because his sire did only prop the same. 
Hector, though grief bereft his speech, yet srruTd upon his joy. 
Andromache cried out, mix'd hands, and to the strength of Troy, 
Thus wept forth her affection: O noblest in desire! 
Thy mind, inflam'd with others' good, will set thyself on fire: 
Nor pitiest thou thy son, nor wife, who must thy widow be 
If now thou issue: all the field will only run on thec. 
Better my shoulders underwent the earth, than thy decease; 
For then would earth bear joys no more: then comes the black increase 
Of griefs (like Greeks on Ilion.) Alas! what one survives 
To be my refuge? one black day bereft seven brothers' lives, 
By stern Achilles; by his hand my father brcath'd his last: 
His high-wall'd rich Cilician Thebes, sack'd by him, and laid wast: 
The royal body yet he left unspoil'd: Religion charm 'cl 
That act of spoil; and all in fire he burn'd him complete artn'd; 
Built over him a royal tomb; and to the monument 
He left of him, th* Oreades (that are the high descent 
Of ^Egis-bearing Jupiter) another of their own 
Did add to it, and set it round with elms; by which is shown 
(In theirs) the barrenness of death: yet might it serve beside 
To shelter the said monument from all the ruffinous pride 
Of storms and tempests, us'd to hurt things of that noble kind. 
The short life yet my mother liv'd, he sav'd; and serv'cl his mind 
With all the riches of the realm; which not enough estccm'd, 
He kept her prisoner; whom small time, but much more wealth redeem *d ; 
And she in sylvan Hyppoplace, Cilicia rul'd again; 
But soon was over-rul'd by death: Diana's chaste disdain 
Gave her a lance, and took her life. Yet all these gone from me, 
Thou amply render 'st all; thy life makes still my father be; 
My mother; brothers: and besides thou art my husband too; 
Most lov'd, most worthy. Pity then, dear love, and do not go: 
For thou gone, all these go again: pity our common joy, 
Lest of a father's patronage, the bulwark of all Troy- 
Thou leav'st him a poor widow's charge. Stay, stay then, in this tow'r, 
And call up to the wild fig-tree all thy retired pow'r: 


For there the wall is easiest scal'd, and fittest for surprise; 

And there, th' Ajaces, Idomen, th' Atrides, Diomed, thrice 

Have both survey 'd and made attempt; I know not if indue 'd 

By some wise augury, or the fact was naturally infus'd 

Into their wits, or courages. To this, great Hector said: 

Be well assured, wife, all these things in my kind cares are weighed. 

But what a shame, and fear it is, to think how Troy would scorn 

(Both in her husbands and her wives, whom long-trained gowns adorn) 

That I should cowardly fly off! The spirit I first did breathe 

Did never teach me that; much less, since the contempt of death 

Was settled in me; and my mind knew what a worthy was; 

Whose office is to lead in fight, and give no danger pass 

Without improvement. In this fire must Hector's trial shine; 

Here must his country, father, friends, be in him made divine. 

And such a stormy day shall come, (in mind and soul I know,) 

When sacred Troy shall shed her tow'rs, for tears of overthrow; 

When Priam, all his birth and pow'r, shall in those tears be drown'd. 

But neither Troy's posterity, so much my soul doth wound; 

Priam, nor Hecuba herself, nor all my brothers' woes 

(Who though so many, and so good, must all be food for foes) 

As thy sad state; when some rude Greek shall lead thee weeping hence; 

These free days clouded ; and a night of captive violence 

Loading thy temples: out of which thine eyes must never see; 

But spin the Greek wives webs of task, and their fetch-water be, 

To Argos, from Messeides, or clear Hyperia's spring: 

Which, howsoever thou abhorr'st, Fate's such a shrewish thing, 

She will be mistress; whose curst hands, when they shall crush out cries 

From thy oppressions, being beheld by other enemies. 

Thus they will nourish thy extremes: This dame was Hector's wife, 

A man, that at the wars of Troy, did breathe the worthiest life 

Of all their army. This again will rub thy fruitful wounds; 

To miss the man, that to thy bands could give such narrow bounds. 

But that day shall not wound mine eyes; the solid heap of night 

Shall interpose, and stop mine ears, against thy plaints, and plight. 

This said, he reach'd to take his son: who of his arms afraid, 
And then the horse-hair plume, with which he was so overlaid, 
Nodded so horribly, he cling 'd back to his nurse, and cried. 
Laughter affected his great sire; who dofl'd, and laid aside 
His fearful helm, that on the earth cast round about it light; 
Then took and kiss'd his loving son; and (balancing his weight 
In dancing him) these loving vows to living Jove he us'd, 
And all the other bench of gods: you that have infus'd 
Soul to this infant; now set down this blessing on his star: 
Let his renown be clear as mine; equal his strength in war; 


And make his reign so strong hi 'Troy, that years to conic may yield 

His facts this fume; - -when, rich in spoils, he leaves the conquer 'cl field 

Sown with his slaughters: -These high deeds exceed his father's worth. 

And let this echo'd praise supply the comforts to come forth 

Of his kind mother, with my life. This said; tli' heroic sire 

Gave him his mother; whose fair eyes, fresh, streams of love's salt fire, 

Billow 'd on her soft cheeks, to hear the last of Hector's speech, 

In which his vows compris'd the sum of all he did beseech 

In her wislVd comfort. So she took into her odorous breast; 

Her husband's gift; who, mov'd to see her heart so much oppressed, 

He dried her tears; and thus clcsirW: Afllict me not, dear wife, 

With these vain griefs. He cloth not live that can disjoin my life 

And this firm bosom, but my fate; and fate, whose wings can lly? 

Noble, ignoble, fate controls: once born, the best must die. 

Go home, and set thy huswifery on these extremes of thought; 

And drive war from them with thy maids; keep them from doing nought; 

These will be nothing; leave the cares of war to men, and me; 

In whom of all the Ilion race they take their high'st degree. 

(From Book VI.) 

Homer's Odyssey s 

The bow Eumseus took, and bore away; 
Which up in tumult, and almost in fray, 
Put all the Wooers, one enquiring thus: 

tc Whither, rogue, abject, wilt thou bear from us 
That bow proposed? Lay down, or I protest 
Thy dogs shall cat thee, that thou nourishest 
To guard thy swine; amongst whom, left of all, 
Thy life shall leave thee, if the festival, 
We now observe to Phoebus, may our %eals 
Grace with his aid, and all the Deities else," 

This threat made good Euma;us yield the bow 
To his late place, not knowing what might grow 
From such a multitude. And then fell on 
Telemachus with threats, and said: " Set gone 
That bow yet further; 'tis no servant's part 
To serve too many masters; raise your heart 
And bear it off, lest, though you're younger, yet 
With stones I pelt you to the field with it. 
If you and I close, I shall prove too strong. 
I wish as much too hard for all this throng 


The Gods would make me, I should quickly send 

Some after with just sorrow to their end, 

They waste my victuals so, and ply my cup, 

And do me such shrewd turns still." This put up 

The Wooers all in laughters, and put down 

Their angers to him, that so late w r ere grown 

So grave and bloody; which resolved that fear 

Of good Eumseus, who did take and bear 

The King the bow; call'd nurse, and bade her make 

The doors all sure, that if men's tumults take 

The ears of some within, they may not fly, 

But keep at work still close and silently. 

These words put wings to her, and close she put 
The chamber door. The court gates then \vere shut 
By kind Philcetius, who straight did go 
From out the hall, and in the portico 
Found laid a cable of a ship, composed 
Of spongy bulrushes ; with w T hich he closed, 
In winding round about them, the court gates, 
Then took his place again, to view the fates 
That quickly follow 'd. When he came, he saw 
Ulysses viewing, ere he tried to draw 
The famous bow, which every way he moved, 
Up and down turning it; in which he proved 
The plight it w r as in, fearing, chiefly, lest 
The horns w r ere eat with worms in so long rest. 
But w r hat his thoughts intended turning so, 
And keeping such a search about the bow, 
The Wooers little knowing fell to jest, 
And said: "Past doubt he is a man profess'd 
In bowyer's craft, and sees quite through the wood; 
Or something, certain, to be understood 
There is in this his turning of it still. 
A cunning rogue he is at any ill." 

Then spake another proud one: "Would to heaven, 
I might, at will, get gold till he hath given 
That bow his draught!" With these sharp jests did these 
Delightsome Woo'rs their fatal humours please. 
But when the wise Ulysses once had laid 
His fingers on it, and to proof survey'd 
The still sound plight it held, as one of skill 
In song, and of the harp, doth at his will. 
In tuning of his instrument, extend 
A string out with his pin, touch all, and lend 


To every well-wreath'd string his perfect sound, 

Struck all together; with such case drew round 

The King the bow. Then twang'd he up the string, 

That as a swallow in the air cloth sing 

With no continued tune, but, pausing still, 

Twinks out her scatter 'd voice in accents shrill; 

So sharp the string sung when he gave it touch, 

Once having bent and drawn it. Which so much 

Amazed the Wooers, that their colours went 

And came most grievously. And then Jove rent 

The air with thunder; which at heart did cheer 

The now-enough-sustaining traveller, 

That Jove again would his attempt enable. 

Then took he into hand, from off the table, 

The first drawn arrow; and a number more 

Spent shortly on the Wooers; but this one 

He measured by his arm, as if not known 

The length were to him, knock'd it then, and drew; 

And through the axes, at the first hole, flew 

The steel-charged arrow; which when he had clone 

He thus bespake the Prince: <c You have not won 

Disgrace yet by your guest; for I have strook 

The mark I shot at, and no such toil took 

In wearying the bow with fat and fire 

As did the Wooers. Yet reserved entire, 

Thank Heaven, my strength is, and myself am tried, 

No man to be so basely vilified 

As these men pleased to think me. But, free way 

Take that, and all their pleasures; and while day 

Holds her torch to you, and the hour of feast 

Hath now full date, give banquet, and the rest, 

Poem and harp, that grace a well-fill *d board." 

This said, he beckon'd to his son; whose sword 
He straight girt to him, took to hand his lance, 
And complete arm'd did to his sire advance. 

(Book XXI, lines 479-577.) 


From "Bussy d'Ambois" 

(A Nuntius (or Messenger) in the presence of King HENRY the Third 
of France and his court tells the manner of a combat, to which he was 
witness, of three to three; m which D AMBOIS remained sole sur- 
vivor; begun upon an affront passed upon D'AMBOis by some 



I saw fierce D 'Ambois and his two brave friends 

Enter the field, and at their heels their foes, 

Which were the famous soldiers, Barrisor, 

L'Anou, and Pyrrhot, great in deeds of arms: 

All which arrived at the evenest piece of earth 

The field afforded, the three challengers 

Turn'd head, drew all their rapiers, and stood rank'd: 

When face to face the three defendants met them, 

Alike prepared, and resolute alike. 

Like bonfires of contributory wood 

Every man's look show'd, fed with other's spirit; 

As one had been a mirror to another, 

Like forms of life and death each took from other: 

And so w^ere life and death mix'd at their heights, 

That you could see no fear of death (for life) 

Nor love of life (for death): but in their brows 

Pyrrho's opinion in great letters shone; 

That " life and death in all respects are one ". 

Pass'd there no sort of words at their encounter? 


As Hector 'twixt the hosts of Greece and Troy, 
When Paris and the Spartan king should end 
The nine years' war, held up his brazen lance 
For signal that both hosts should cease from arms, 
And hear him speak; so Barrisor (advised) 
Advanced his naked rapier 'twixt both sides, 
Ripp'd up the quarrel, and compared six lives 
Then laid in balance with six idle words; 


Offer 'd remission and contrition too: 

Or else that lie and 1) 'Ambois might: conclude 

The others' dangers. D 'Ambois liked the last; 

But Barrisor 's friends (being equally engaged 

In the mad quarrel) never would expose 

His life alone to that they all deserved. 

And (for the other offer of remission) 

D 'Ambois (that like a laurel put in lire 

Sparkled and spit) did much much more than scorn 

That his wrong should incense him so like chad: 

To go so soon out, and, like lighted paper, 

Approve his spirit at once both lire and ashes: 

So drew they lots, and in them fates appointed 

That Barrisor should fight with fiery I) 'Ambois; 

Pyrrhot with Mclyncll; with Brisac LYVnou: 

And then like flame and powder they commix'd, 

So sprightly, that I wish'd they had been spirits; 

That the ne'er-shutting wounds, they needs must open 

Might as they opcn'd shut, and never kill. 

But D 'Ambois' sword (that lightened as it flew) 

Shot like a pointed comet at the face 

Of manly Barrisor; and there it stuck: 

Thrice pluck'cl he at it, and thrice drew on thrusts 

From him, that of himself was free as fire; 

Who thrust still, as he pluek'd, yet (past belief) 

He with his subtile eye, hand, body, 'scaped; 

At last the deadly bitten point tugg'd oil, 

On fell his yet undaunted foe so fiercely 

That (only made more horrid with his wound) 

Great D 'Ambois shrunk, and gave a little ground: 

But soon return'cl, redoubled in his danger, 

And at the heart of Barrisor seal'cl his anger. 

Then, as in Arden I have seen an oak 

Long shook with tempests, and his lofty top 

Bent to his root, which being at length made loose 

(Even groaning with his weight) he 'gan to nod 

This way and that, as loath his curled brows 

(Which he had oft wrapt in the sky with storms) 

Should stoop; and yet, his radical fibres burst, 

Storm-like he fell, and hid the fear-cold earth: 

So fell stout Barrisor, that had stood the shocks 

Of ten set battles in your highness' war 

'Gainst the sole soldier of the world Navarre, 





(c. 1575-1634) 

JOHN MARSTON was born about 
1575, probably in Coventry. His 
father was a lecturer of the Middle 
Temple, and his mother was the 
daughter of an Italian surgeon. 
Marston's Italian blood explains 
some of the peculiarities of his 
temperament, for, although he does 
not completely illustrate the pro- 
verb " Inglese Italianato e un 
diavolo incarnato ", his youth was 
wild and unbridled. He was 
educated at Brasenose College, 
Oxford, where he graduated B.A. 
in 1594. He began his literary 
career as a poet and satirist, and 
then took to the composition of 
plays. He did not write anything 
for the stage after 1607, and at 
some unknown date, probably about 
1608 or 1609, he took holy orders. 
In 1616 he w r as presented to the 
living of Christ church, in Hamp- 
shire, which he resigned in 1631. 
His plays were published in 1633, 
and he died in the following year. 

The Metamorphosis of Pygma- 
liotfs Image: and certain Satires 
appeared in 1598, and The Scourge 
of Villany (satires) later in the same 
year. In the later book Marston 
states that the earlier one was 
intended to discredit not to ex- 
emplify indecent writing, but Arch- 
bishop Whitgift, who was taking 
no chances, ordered both works 
to be burnt. Antonio and Mellida, 
an ill - constructed and bombastic 
tragedy in two parts, was published 
in 1602. The Malcontent, a better 
but far from perfect play, appeared 
in 1604. It was dedicated to Ben 
Jonson, and was probably intended 

as a peace-offering after one of the 
many quarrels between the two 
dramatists. The Dutch Courtesan 

(1605) is a coarse but lively comedy. 
Eastward Ho! (i 605) in which Jonson 
and Chapman collaborated, is a 
splendid play, and contains one 
of the best pictures of city life in 
all Elizabethan drama. Marston's 
exact share in it is unknown and 
unknowable. It nearly got its 
authors into serious trouble (see 
Jonson). Parasitaster, or the Fawn 

(1606) is a good comedy; Sopho- 
nisba (1606) a feeble and melo- 
dramatic tragedy. What You Will 

(1607) borrowed the sub -title of 
Twelfth Night, but has none of the 
charm of the Shakespearean comedy. 
Other plays in which Marston had 
a share are: The Insatiate Countess 
(probably in part the work of 
William Barksteed), Jack Drum's 
Entertainment, and Histriomastix. 

Marston can hardly be classed 
among the greater Elizabethan 
dramatists. He had, without doubt, 
very great abilities, but he did not 
make the most of them. Fustian 
language and uncertainty of taste 
mar much of his work, though now 
and again short passages and single 
lines occur which completely dis- 
arm the most querulous critic. 
Marston had no high opinion of his 
own work, and said of it: " He that 
thinks worse of my rhymes than 
myself, I scorn him, for he cannot; 
he that thinks better is a fool." 
He dedicated his early satires " To 
everlasting oblivion" and "To his 
most esteemed and best beloved 
Selfe". In leaving the stage for the 


t he showed that the days of The War of the Theatres:, R. A. 

r outh were over, and that his Small, The Stage-Quarrel between 

bent did not lie in dramatic Ken Jomon and ike so-called Poet- 

josition. asters; A, C. Swinburne, The Age 

, H. Bullen, The Works of of Sh<ikt>sl>farc\ M. S. Allen, The 

Manton\ J. H. Penniman, Satire oj John Alarslon.] 

Antonio's Revenge 

The Prologue 

The rawish dank of clumsy winter ramps 

The fluent summer's vein: and driscxling sleet 

Chilleth the wan bleak cheek of the numb'd earth, 

Whilst snarling gusts nibble the juicclcss leaves 

From the naked shuddering branch, and pills the skin 

From off the soft and delicate aspects. 

0, now methinks a sullen tragic scene 

Would suit the time with pleasing congruence! 

May we be happy in our weak devoir, 

And all part pleased in most wish'd content. 

But sweat of Hercules can ne'er beget 

So blest an issue. Therefore we proclaim, 

If any spirit breathes within this round 

Uncapable of weighty passion, 

(As from his birth being hugged in the arms 

And nuzzled 'twixt the breasts of Happiness) 

Who winks and shuts his apprehension up 

From common sense of what men were, and are; 

Who would not know what men must be: let such 

Hurry amain from our black- visagecl shows; 

We shall affright their eyes. But if a breast, 

Nail'd to the earth with grief; if any heart, 

Pierced through with anguish, pant within this ring; 

If there be any blood, whose heat is choked 

And stifled with true sense of misery: 

If aught of these strains fill this consort up, 

They arrive most welcome, O, that our power 

Could lacky or keep wing with our desires ; 

That with unused poise of style and sense 

We might weigh massy in judicious scale! 

Yet here's the prop that doth support our hopes: 

When our scenes falter, or invention halts, 

Your favour will give crutches to our faults. 


From u Tlie Insatiate Countess " 

(ISABELLA (the countess), after a long seiies of crimes of infidelity 

to her husband and of murder, is brought to suffer on a scaffold. 

ROBERTO, her husband, arrives to take a last leave of her.) 


Bear record, all you blessed saints in heaven, 

I come not to torment thee in thy death; 

For of himself he's terrible enough. 

But call to mind a lady like yourself, 

And think how ill in such a beauteous soul, 

Upon the instant morrow of her nuptials, 

Apostasy and wild revolt would show, 

Withal imagine that she had a lord 

Jealous the air should ravish her chaste looks; 

Doting, like the Creator in his models, 

Who views them every minute and with care 

Mix*d in his fear of their obedience to him. 

Suppose he sung through famous Italy, 

More common than the looser songs of Petrarch, 

To every several zany's instrument: 

And he poor wretch, hoping some better fate 

Might call her back from her adulterate purpose, 

Lives in obscure and almost unknown life; 

Till hearing that she is condemn'd to die, 

For he once loved her, lends his pined corpse 

Motion to bring him to her stage of honour, 

Where, drown' d in woe at her so dismal chance, 

He clasps her: thus he falls into a trance. 


my offended lord, lift up your eyes; 
But yet avert them from my loathed sight. 
Had I with you enjoy'd the lawful pleasure, 
To which belongs nor fear nor public shame, 

1 might have lived in honour, died in fame. 
Your pardon on my faltering knees I beg; 
Which shall confirm more peace unto my death, 
Than all the grave instructions of the Church. 



Freely thou hast it. Farewell, my Isabella; 

Let thy death ransom thy soul, O die a rare example. 

The kiss thou gavest me in the church, here take: 

As I leave thcc, so thou the world forsake, [Exit. 


Madam, tic up your hair. 


these golden nets, 

That have ensnared so many wanton youths! 
Not one, but has been held a thread of life, 
And superstitiously depended on, 
What else? 

Madam, I must entreat you blind your eyes, 


1 have lived too long in darkness, my friend: 
And yet mine eyes with their majestic light 
Have got new Muses in a poet's spright. 
They've been more gazed at than the god of day; 
Their brightness never could be flattered: 

Yet thou command'st a fixed cloud of lawn 
To eclipse eternally these minutes of light. 
I am prepared. 

From " What You Will " 

I was a scholar: seven useful springs 
Did I deflower in quotations 
Of crossed opinions 'bout the soul of man; 
The more I learnt, the more I learnt to doubt. 
Delight my spaniel slept, whilst I bauscd leaves, 
Toss'd o'er the dunces, pored on the old print 
Of titled words: and still my spaniel slept. 
Whilst I wasted lamp-oil, baited my flesh, 



Shrunk up my veins: and still my spaniel slept. 
And still I held converse with Zabarell, 
Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty saw 
Of antick Donate: still my spaniel slept. 
Still on went I; first, an sit anima\ 
Then, an it were mortal. O hold, hold; at that 
They're at brain-buffets, fell by the ears amain 
Pell-mell together: still my spaniel slept. 
Then, whether 'twere corporeal, local, fix'd, 
Ex traduce, but whether 't had free will 
Or no, hot philosophers 

Stood banding factions, all so strongly propp'd, 
I s tagger M, knew not which was firmer part, 
But thought, quoted, read, observed, and pryed, 
Stuff 'd noting-books: and still my spaniel slept. 
At length he waked, and yawn'd; and by yon sky, 
For aught I know he knew as much as I. 

(? 1570-1641) 

WE know little about the life of 
Thomas Dekker except what we 
learn from his works. It is unlikely 
that he was a University man; it is 
certain that he was almost always 
short of money, and that his enor- 
mous output of plays and pam- 
phlets was primarily due to sheer 
impecuniosity. We also know that 
in all his misfortunes he retained 
a singularly happy outlook; his 
humanity, in the broadest sense of 
that word, is second only to that of 
Shakespeare; in his attitude to 
everything mercy seasons justice. 
He was a man who had an infinitesi- 
mal capacity for taking pains with 
his work; he was often slipshod, 
and very often worked in col- 
laboration. It is impossible to 
mention all Dekker 's numerous 

plays, nor is it necessary to enume- 
rate those which, owing to War- 
burton's cook or some act of God, 
have not been preserved. Old 
Fortunatus (1600) is a pleasant 
retelling of an old story, and is 
among the besi plays of Dekker. 
The Shoemaker's Holiday is a very 
amusing play dealing with citizen 
life; it is founded on The Gentle 
Craft of Deloney (q.v.). Satiro- 
mastix (1602), which was written 
in collaboration with Marston, is 
their ill - constructed but good- 
tempered rejoinder to the bitter 
attack which Jonson had made upon 
them in the Poetaster. Jonson and 
Dekker had formerly collaborated 
in two lost plays, Page of Plymouth 
and Robert the Second, and their 
literary partnership may have led 



to a certain amount of animosity, 
which is not rare in the case of such 
partnerships . Patient Grissill ( 1 603 ) , 
written with Chettle and Haughton, 
is a good but not a masterly version 
of the story told by the Clerk of 
Oxford, The Honest Whore (1604), 
which has a second part not printed 
until 1630 but probably written 
much earlier, contains some of 
Dekker's strongest and most sym- 
pathetic work. Northward Ho 
(1607), Westward Ho, and The 
Famous History of Sir Thomas 
Wyat were written in collaboration 
with Webster; the first two are a 
pair of citizen comedies, and the 
last-named an invertebrate play 
which survives only in a mutilated 
text. Dekker collaborated with 
Middleton in The Roaring Girl 
(1611), and with Massinger in The 
Virgin Martyr. If it be not good, 
the Devil is in it is a sample of his 
unaided work at its worst. The 
Whore of Babylon is more remark- 
able for its extreme Protestantism 
than for any literary qualities. 
Other plays are: Match me in London 
(1631); The Wonder of a Kingdom 
(1636); The Witch of Edmonton, 
with Rowley and Ford; and The 
Sun's Darting, a kind of masque, 
with Ford. Dekker's non-dramatic 
writings are also very numerous. 
The Wonderful Year (1603) gives a 
Defoe-like account of the plague; 
The Bachelor's Banquet is an ex- 
cellent and amusing pamphlet; 
News from Hell, The Seven Deadly 
Sins of London, and The Bellman of 
London are vivacious tracts. The 
most famous of Dekker's prose 
writings is perhaps The Gull's 
Hornbook, a kind of ironical book 

of etiquette. All Dekker's pam- 
phlets arc simply invaluable for the 
light which they throw upon the 
manners and customs of the time 
though they must be used with 
caution as " documents " on ac- 
count of their satirical exaggeration 
Dekker showed his versatility by 
writing a very beautiful collection 
of prayers, Four Birds of Noah's 
Ark (1609). The worthless poem 
Canaan's Calamity, etc. (1598), 
with which Dekker was long dis- 
credited, is now known to be the 
work of Thomas Deloney, who 
shared Dekker's initials. 

Thomas Dekker had the lightest 
heart and the lightest purse of all 
the Elizabethan dramatists. He 
was a Londoner through and 
through; a parallel may be drawn 
between Dekker and Dickens, who 
resemble each other at least as 
much as Monmouth and Maccdon. 
Dekker had an enormous gust 
for life, and an ability to extract 
humour from anything. When he 
crossed swords with" Jonson, his 
skilfully manipulated rapier was 
more than a match for Jonson's 
two-handed engine. As Charles 
Lamb said, " Dekker had poetry 
enough for anything "; as well as 
this^ gift of poetry he had a gift of 
realism, the two making a striking 
combination. His lyrics are among 
the best of those written in that 
great age. 

[R, H. Shepherd, Dramatic Works 
of Thomas Dekker, A. B. Grosart, 
Non-Dramatic Works of Thomas 
Dekker, A. C. Swinburne, The Age 
of Shakespeare; M. L. Hunt, 
Thomas Dekker, a Study.] 


Old Fortunatus 

(The Goddess FORTUNE appears to FORTUNATUS, and offers him the 

choice of six things. He chooses Riches.) 


Before thy soul at this deep lottery 
Draw forth her prize, ordain'd by destiny, 
Know that here's no recanting a first choice. 
Choose then discreetly: for the laws of fate, 
Being graven in steel, must stand inviolate. 


Daughters of Jove and the unblemish'd Night, 

Most righteous Parcas, guide my genius right: 

V^isdom, Strength, Health, Beauty, Long Life, and Riches, 


Stay, Fortunatus; once more hear me speak. 

If thou kiss Wisdom's cheek and make her thine, 

She'll breathe into thy lips divinity, 

And thou (like Phoebus) shalt speak oracle; 

Thy heaven-inspired soul on Wisdom's wings 

Shall fly up to the Parliament of Jove, 

And read the Statutes of Eternity, 

And see what's past and learn what is to come. 

If thou lay claim to Strength, armies shall quake 

To see thee frown: as kings at mine do lie, 

So shall thy feet trample on empery. 

Make Health thine object, thou shalt be strong proof 

'Gainst the deep searching darts of surfeiting, 

Be ever merry, ever revelling. 

Wish but for Beauty, and within thine eyes 

Two naked Cupids amorously shall swim, 

And on thy cheeks I'll mix such white and red, 

That Jove shall turn away young Ganymede, 

And with immortal arms shall circle thee. 

Are thy desires Long Life? thy vital thread 

Shall be stretch'd out; thou shalt behold the change 

Of monarchies, and see those children die 

Whose great great grandsires now in cradles He. 



If through Gold's sacred hunger thou dost pine; 
Those gilded wantons which in swarms do run 
To warm their slender bodies in the sun, 
Shall stand for number of those golden piles 
Which in rich pride shall swell before thy feet; 
As those arc, so shall these be infinite. 


O, whither am I rapt beyond myself? 

More violent conflicts fight in every thought 

Than his whose fatal choice Troy's downfall wrought. 

Shall I contract myself to Wisdom's love? 

Then I lose Riches; and a wise man poor 

Is like a sacred book that's never read; 

To himself he lives and to all else seems dead. 

This age thinks better of a gilded fool, 

Than of a threadbare saint in Wisdom's school. 

I will be Strong: then I refuse Long Life; 

And though mine arm should conquer twenty worlds, 

There's a lean fellow beats all conquerors: 

The greatest strength expires with loss of breath, 

The mightiest in one minute stoop to death. 

Then take Long Life, or Health; should I do so, 

I might grow ugly, and that tedious scroll 

Of months and years much misery may enroll: 

Therefore I'll beg for Beauty; yet I will not: 

The fairest cheek hath oftentimes a soul 

Leprous as sin itself, than hell more foul. 

The Wisdom of this world is idiotism; 

Strength a weak reed; Health Sickness' enemy, 

And it at length will have the victory. 

Beauty is but a painting; and Long Life 

Is a long journey in December gone, 

Tedious and full of tribulation . 

Therefore, dread sacred empress, make me rich: 

My choice is Store of Gold; the rich arc wise: 

He that upon his back rich garments wears 

Is wise, though on his head grow Midas' ears. 

Gold is the strength, the sinews of the world, 

The health, the soul, the beauty most divine; 

A mask of gold hides all deformities; 

Gold is heaven's physic, life's restorative; 

0, therefore make me rich! 


The Gull's Hornbook 

How a gallant should behave himself in a playhouse 

The theatre is your poets' Royal Exchange, upon which their muses, 
that are now turned to merchants, meeting, barter away that light com- 
modity of words for a lighter ware than words ; plaudiles, and the breath 
of the great beast; which, like the threatenings of two cowards, vanish 
all into air. Players and their factors, who put away the stufY, and make 
the best of it they possibly can, as indeed 'tis their parts so to do, your 
gallant, your courtier, and your captain had wont to be the soundest 
paymasters; and, I think, are still the surest chapmen: and these, by 
means that their heads are well stocked, deal upon this comical freight 
by the gross; when your groundling, and gallery-commoner buys his sport 
by the penny; and, like a haggler, is glacl to utter it again by retailing. 

Since then the place is so free in entertainment, allowing a stool as 
well to the farmer's son as to your templar: that your stinkard has the 
selfsame liberty to be there in his tobacco-fumes, which your sweet 
courtier hath; and that your carman and tinker claim as strong a voice 
in their suffrage, and sit to give judgment on the play's life and death, 
as well as the proudest Momus among the tribes of critic: it is fit that lie, 
whom the most tailors' bills do make room for, when he comes, should 
not be basely, like a viol, cased up in a corner. 

Whether therefore the gatherers of the public or private playhouse 
stand to receive the afternoon's rent; let our gallant, having paid it, 
presently advance himself up to the throne of the stage; I mean not 
into the lords' room, which is now but the stage's suburbs; no; those 
boxes, by the iniquity of custom, conspiracy of waiting-women and 
gentlemen-ushers that there sweat together, and the covctousncss of 
sharers, are contemptibly thrust into the rear; and much new satin is 
there damned, by being smothered to death in darkness. But on the 
very rushes where the comedy is to dance, yea, and under the state of 
Cambyses himself, must our feathered ostrich, like a piece of ordnance, 
be planted valiantly, because impudently, beating down the mews and 
hisses of the opposed rascality. 

For do but cast up a reckoning; what large comings-ill are pursed 
up^by sitting on the stage? First a conspicuous eminence is gotten; by 
which means, the best and most essential parts of a gallant's good clothes 
a proportionable leg, white hand, the Parisian lock, and a tolerable beard, 
are perfectly revealed. 

By sitting on the stage, you have signed patent to engross the whole 
VOL. ii 



commodity of censure, may lawfully presume to be a girder, and stand 
at the helm to steer the passage of scenes; yet no man shall once offer 
to hinder you from obtaining the title of an insolent, over-weening cox- 

By sitting on the stage, you may, without travelling for it, at the 
very next door ask whose play it is; and, by that quest of inquiry, the 
law warrants you to avoid much mistaking; if you know not the author 
you may rail against him; and pcradventure so behave yourself, that you 
may enforce the author to know you. 

By sitting on the stage, if you be a knight, you may happily get you 
a mistress; if a mere Fleet-street gentleman, a wife; but assure yourself, 
by continual residence, you are the first and principal man in election to 
begin the number of cc We three." 

By spreading your body on the stage, and by being a justice in exam- 
ining of plays, you shall put yourself into such true sccnical authority, 
that some poet shall not dare to present his muse rudely upon your 
eyes, without having first unmasked her, rifled her, and discovered all 
her bare and most mystical parts before you at a tavern; when you 
most knightly shall, for his pains, pay for both their suppers. 

By sitting on the stage, you may, with small cost, purchase the dear 
acquaintance of the boys; have a good stool for sixpence; at any time 
know what particular part any of the infants represent; get your match 
lighted; examine the play-suits' lace, and perhaps win wagers upon laying 
'tis copper; etc. And to conclude; whether you be a fool, or a justice 
of peace; a cuckold, or a captain; a lord-mayor's son, or a dawcock; a 
knave, or an under-sheriff; of what stamp soever you be; current, or 
counterfeit; the stage, like time, will bring you to most perfect light, 
and lay you open. Neither are you to be hunted from thence; though 
the scarecrows in the yard hoot at you, hiss at you, spit at you, yea, throw 
dirt even in your teeth; 'tis most gentlemanlike patience to endure all 
this, and to laugh at the silly animals. But if the rabble, with a full throat, 
cry: " Away with the fool!" you were worse than a madman to tarry by 
it; for the gentleman, and the fool should never sit on the stage together. 

Marry; let this observation go hand in hand with the rest; or rather, 
like a country serving-man, some five yards before them. Present not 
yourself on the stage, especially at a new play, until the quaking Pro- 
logue hath by rubbing got colour into his checks, and is ready to give 
the trumpets their cue that he is upon point to enter; for then it is time, 
as though you were one of the properties, or that you dropped out of 
the hangings^ to creep from behind the arras, with your tripos or three- 
footed stool in one hand, and a teston mounted between a forefinger 
and a thumb in the other; for, if you should bestow your person upon 
the vulgar, when the belly of the house is but half full, your apparel is 
quite eaten up, the fashion lost;, and the proportion of your body is in 


more danger to be devoured than if it were served up in the Counter 
amongst the poultry: avoid that as you would the bastone. It shall crown 
you with rich commendation, to laugh aloud in the midst of the most 
serious and saddest scene of the terriblest tragedy; and to let that clapper, 
your tongue, be tossed so high, that all the house may ring of it: your 
lords use it; your knights are apes to the lords, and do so too; your 
inn-a-court man is zany to the knights, and (many very scurvily) 
comes likewise limping after it: be thou a beagle to them all, and 
never lin snuffing till you have scented them: for by talking and 
laughing, like a ploughman in a morris, you heap Pelion upon Ossa, 
glory upon glory; as first, all the eyes in the galleries will leave walking 
after the players, and only follow you; the simplest dolt in the house 
snatches up your name, and, when he meets you in the streets, or that 
you fall into his hands in the middle of a watch, his word shall be taken 
for you; he will cry "he's such a gallant," and you pass: secondly, you 
publish your temperance to the world, in that you seem not to resort 
thither to taste vain pleasures with a hungry appetite; but only as 
a gentleman to spend a foolish hour or two, because you can do 
nothing else: thirdly, you mightily disrelish the audience, and disgrace 
the author: Marry; you take up, though it be at the worst hand, 
a strong opinion of your own judgment, and enforce the poet to take pity 
of your weakness, and, by some dedicated sonnet, to bring you into a 
better paradise, only to stop your mouth. 


Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? 

O, sweet content! 
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed? 

O, punishment! 

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed 
To add to golden numbers golden numbers? 

O, sweet content! O, sweet, O, sweet content! 

Work apace, apace, apace, apace; 
Honest labour bears a lovely face; 
Then hey nonny, hey nonny, nonny! 

Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring? 

O, sweet content! 
Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? 

O, punishment! 



Then he that patiently want's burden hears, 
No burden bears, but is a king, a king! 
O, sweet content! 0, sweet, O, sweet content! 

Work apace, apace, apace, apace; 
Honest labour bears a lovely face; 
Then hey nonny, hey nonny, nonny! 

(From Patient GrissiL] 


Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, 
Smiles awake you when you rise. 
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, 
And I will sing a lullaby: 
Rock them, rock them, lullaby, 

Care is heavy, therefore sleep you; 
You are care, and care must keep you. 
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, 
And I will sing a lullaby; 
Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 

(From Patient Grissil.) 


(? 1572 

THOMAS HEYWOOD was a Lincoln- 
shire man of fairly good family, and 
was educated at Cambridge. The 
unsupported tradition which made 
him a fellow of Peterhouse has been 
repudiated even by the late master 
of that college, Sir A. W. Ward. 
Heywood himself tells us that he 
had " either an entire hand or at 
the least a main finger" in two 
hundred and twenty plays. This 
gigantic total is not quite so 
astonishing when we remember 

that his dramatic career stretched 
over at least thirty-seven years, so 
that he wrote on an average half 
a dozen plays a year, a notable but 
not an incredible feat. Only about 
twenty-four of his plays remain. 
As may be easily imagined, Heywood 
wrote without great effort, and was 
a popular entertainer rather than 
an artist. He is said to have written 
his plays on the backs of tavern- 
bills (which would account for the 
loss of many of them) and to have 



demanded from himself a daily 
ration of so many words, a plan 
similar to that adopted by Anthony 
Trollope in mid- Victorian days. 
One of the earliest of Hey wood's 
plays is The Four Prentices of 
London, a crude type of historical 
farrago, which perhaps may be 
dated as early as 1594. Edward IV, 
an historical play in two parts, is 
also crude, but has some good 
passages. If You know not me You 
know Nobody is also an historical 
drama in tw T o parts, and is of little 
value. The Golden Age, The Silver 
Age, The Brazen Age, and The Iron 
Age (two parts) are odd miscel- 
lanies of classical mythology, very 
weak dramatically, but treating 
certain episodes with no little skill. 
Heywood's masterpiece, and the 
play by which he is chiefly re- 
membered, is A Woman lulled with 
Kindness (1603). It is an admirably 
constructed drama of domestic life, 
full of pathos and realism of the 
best kind. The Wise Woman of 
Hogsdon (1604) is much less memor- 
able, and The Fair Maid of the 
Exchange (inaptly described on the 
title page as " very delectable and 
full of mirth ") is probably not by 
Heywood. The Royal King and the 
Loyal Subject handles an improbable 
plot in a competent fashion. The 
Rape of Lucrece (?i6o4) is one of the 
most extraordinary hybrids ever 
produced, even in that age of in- 
congruities, for it is a cross between 
tragedy and opera-bouffe. The 
songs of Valerius, " the merry lord 
among the Roman peers ", are as 
out of place as a jig at a funeral. 
The Fair Maid of the West (two 
parts) is an attractive play with a 
pleasing smack of adventure and 
the sea about it, and The English 
Traveller is an even better play on 

somewhat similar lines, and ranks 
perhaps second among Its author's 
dramatic works. The Captives is 
perhaps chiefly interesting because 
it was discovered in 1883 by A. H. 
Bullen; A Maidenhead well lost is 
not a good play, nor is A Challenge 
for Beauty much better. Love's 
Mistress is a good rehandling of the 
beautiful tale of Cupid and Psyche 
which is told by the old woman in 
Apuleius's Golden Ass. For a 
hack-writer, Heywood did not col- 
laborate frequently, but he wrote 
Fortune by Land and Sea with 
William Rowley, and The late 
Lancashire Witches with Richard 
Brome. Heywood's non-dramatic 
works are numerous but not impor- 
tant. His Apology for Actors (1612) 
is a pleasant but not a powerful 
piece of special pleading. England's 
Elizabeth and rwat/cetov or Nine 
Books of Various History concerning 
Women do not find many readers 
nowadays. Heywood's verse writ- 
ings. The Hierarchy of the Blessed 
Angels, &c., are negligible. 

Heywood did not entertain any 
exaggerated idea of the importance 
of his own work, but described him- 
self as " the youngest and weakest 
of the nest wherein he was hatched ". 
He was, however, a man of admir- 
able talent, and particularly excelled 
in domestic drama, in plays which 
dealt with middle-class life and 
everyday happenings. He was, 
like Dekker, a London-lover, and 
was a man of pleasing modesty and 
industrious versatility. Lamb has 
called him " a sort of prose Shake- 
speare ", but there is a certain lack 
of distinction in his work which 
prevents us from completely con- 
curring with this verdict. 

[A. M. Clark, Thomas Heywood: 
Playwright and Miscellanist. 


From a A Woman killed with Kindness" 

(MR, FRANKFORD discovers ihat his Wife has been 

unfaithful to him.) 


0, by what words, what title, or what name 
Shall I entreat your pardon? Pardon! O! 
I am as far from hoping such sweet grace, 
As Lucifer from heaven. To call you husband! 
(0 me most wretched!) I have lost that name: 
I am no more your wife. 


Spare thou thy tears, for I will weep for thec; 

And keep thy countenance, for I'll blush for thee. 

Now, I protest, I think, 'tis I am tainted, 

For I am most ashamed; and 'tis more hard 

For me to look upon thy guilty face, 

Than on the sun's clear brow; what wouldst thou speak? 


I would I had no tongue, no ears, no eyes, 
No apprehension, no capacity. 
When do you spurn me like a dog? when tread me 
Under feet? when drag me by the hair? 
Though I deserve a thousand thousand fold 
More than you can inflict: yet, once my husband, 
For womanhood, to which I am a shame, 
Though once an ornament; even for his sake, 
That hath redeem'd our souls, mark not my face, 
Nor hack me with your sword: but let me go 
Perfect and undeformed to my tomb. 
I am not worthy that I should prevail 
In the least suit; no, not to speak to you, 
Nor look on you, nor to be in your presence: 
Yet as an abject this one suit I crave; 
This granted, I am ready for my grave. 


My God, with patience arm me! rise,' nay, rise, 
And I'll debate with thee. Was it for want 


Thou play'dst the strumpet? Wast thou not supplied 
With every pleasure, fashion, and new toy; 
Nay, even beyond my calling? 

1 was. 


Was it then disability in me? 

Or in thine eye seem'd he a properer man? 




Did not I lodge thee in my bosom? 
Wear thee in my heart? 

You did. 


1 did indeed, witness my tears I did. 

Go bring my infants hither. O Nan, O Nan; 
If neither fear of shame, regard of honour, 
The blemish of my house, nor my dear love, 
Could have withheld thee from so lewd a fact, 
Yet for these infants, these young harmless souls, 
On whose white brows thy shame is character M, 
And grows in greatness as they wax in years ; 
Look but on them, and melt away in tears. 
Away with them; lest as her spotted body 
Hath stain'd their names with stripe of bastardy, 
So her adulterous breath may blast their spirits 
With her infectious thoughts. Away with them. 

In this one life I die ten thousand deaths. 


Stand up, stand up, I will do nothing rashly. 

I will retire awhile into my study, 

And thou shalt hear thy sentence presently. [Exit. 


(He returns with CRANWELL Iris friend. She 
falls on her knees.) 


My words are registered in heaven already. 
With patience hear me. I'll not martyr thee, 
Nor mark thee for a strumpet; but with usage 
Of more humility torment thy soul, 
And kill thee even with kindness. 

Mr. Frankford. 


Good Mr. Cranwell. Woman, hear thy judgment; 

Go make thee ready in thy best attire; 

Take with thee all thy gowns, all thy apparel: 

Leave nothing that did ever call thee mistress, 

Or by whose sight, being left here in the house, 

I may remember such a woman was. 

Choose thee a bed and hangings for thy chamber; 

Take with thee everything which hath thy mark, 

And get thee to my manor seven miles oil r ; 

Where live; 'tis thine, I freely give it thee: 

My tenants by shall furnish thee with wains 

To carry all thy stuff within two hours; 

No longer will I limit thee my sight. 

Choose which of all my servants thou likest best, 

And they are thine to attend thee, 

A mild sentence, 


But as thou hopest for heaven, as thou bclicvcst 
Thy name's recorded in the book of life, 
I charge thee never after this sad day 
To see me or to meet me; or to send 
By word, or writing, gift, or otherwise, 
To move me, by thyself, or by thy friends; 
Nor challenge any part in my two children. 
So farewell, Nan; for we will henceforth be 
As we had never seen, ne'er more shall see. 



How full my heart is, in mine eyes appears; 
What wants in words, I will supply in tears. 


Come, take your coach, your stuff; all must along; 
Servants and all make ready, all be gone. 
It was thy hand cut two hearts out of one. 

(MRS. FRANKFORD (dying). SIR FRANCIS ACTON (her brother}. SIR 
CHARLES MOUNTFORD, MR. MALBY, and other of her husband's 


FRANKFORD (entering) 
How do you, woman? 


Well, Mr. Frankford, well; but shall be better 
I hope within this hour. Will you vouchsafe 
(Out of your grace and your humanity) 
To take a spotted strumpet by the hand? 


This hand once held my heart in faster bonds 
Than now 'tis griped by me. God pardon them 
That made us first break hold. 


Amen, amen. 

Out of my zeal to heaven, whither I'm now bound, 
I was so impudent to wish you here; 
And once more beg your pardon. 0! good man, 
And father to my children, pardon me. 
Pardon, O pardon me: my fault so heinous is, 
That if you in this world forgive it not, 
Heaven will not clear it in the world to come. 
Faintness hath so usurp 'd upon my knees 
That kneel I cannot: but on my heart's knees 
My prostrate soul lies thrown down at your feet 
To beg your gracious pardon. Pardon, O pardon me! 



As freely from the low depth of my soul 

As my Redeemer hath for us given his death, 

I pardon thee; I will shed tears for thec; 

Pray with thee : 

And, in mere pity of thy weak estate, 

I'll wish to die with thee. 


So do we all. 


Even as I hope for pardon at that day, 
When the great Judge of heaven in scarlet sits, 
So be thou pardon'd. Though thy rash offence 
Divorced our bodies, thy repentant tears 
Unite our souls. 


Then comfort, mistress Frankford; 

You see your husband hath forgiven your fall; 

Then rouse your spirits, and cheer your fainting soul, 

How is it with you? 

How d'ye feel yourself? 

Not of this world, 


I see you are not, and I weep to see it. 
My wife, the mother to my pretty babes; 
Both those lost names I do restore thec back, 
And with this kiss I wed thee once again: 
Though thou art wounded in thy honour 'd name, 
And with that grief upon thy death-bed liest; 
Honest in heart, upon my soul, thou cliest. 


Pardon'd on earth, soul, thou in heaven art free 
Once more. Thy wife dies thus embracing thee. 



Pack, Clouds ? Away 

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day! 

With night we banish sorrow. 
Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft 

To give my love good morrow. 
Wings from the wind to please her mind, 

Notes from the lark I'll borrow: 
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, 

To give my love good morrow. 
To give my love good morrow, 
Notes from them all I'll borrow. 

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast! 

Sing, birds, in every furrow, 
And from each bill let music shrill 

Give my fair love good morrow. 
Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, 
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves 

Sing my fair love good morrow. 
To give my love good morrow, 
Sing, birds, in every furrow. 


( Beaumont, 1584 - 1616; Fletcher, 1579 - 1625 ) 

FRANCIS BEAUMONT was the third 
son of Francis Beaumont, a judge 
of the common pleas, and was born 
at Grace-Dieu, Leicestershire, in 
1584. He was educated at Broad- 
gates Hall (now Pembroke College), 
Oxford, but did not graduate, and 
was entered a member of the Inner 
Temple in 1600. When eighteen 
years of age he wrote a not very 
promising Ovidian poem, Salmacis 
and Hermaphroditus. He soon 

became an intimate friend of Ben 
Jonson, who may have introduced 
him to John Fletcher. Fletcher was 
a son of Dr. Richard Fletcher, who 
was Dean of Peterborough at the 
time of the execution of Mary, 
Queen of Scots; who was in turn 
Bishop of Bristol, Worcester, and 
London, and who had died in 1596 
from the combined ill-effects of a 
misalliance and an overindulgence 
in tobacco, whose protomartyr he 


may claim to be. John Fletcher 
was born at Rye, in Sussex, and was 
educated at Bene't (Corpus) Col- 
lege, Cambridge, where he was 
bible-clerk, Beaumont and Fletcher 
first met in 1607 or thereabouts, 
and soon became the closest of 
friends; they lived together in a 
house in Southwark, and arc said 
to have had their clothes and yet 
more intimate possessions in com- 
mon. This close companionship 
lasted for only some six years, when 
Beaumont married, and probably 
went to live in the country. In 1616 
Beaumont died, and was buried in 
Westminster Abbey. Very little is 
known of Fletcher's life after he 
lost his partner; he died of the 
plague in 1625, and was buried at 
St. Saviour's, Southwark. 

Beaumont and Fletcher have been 
aptly called the great twin brethren 
of Jacobean drama. In some 
respects they stand apart from their 
fellow-dramatists. They were both 
of gentle birth, and Beaumont at 
any rate was in easy circumstances 
and probably shared his affluence 
with his friend. So close was their 
partnership that their earliest editor 
wrote in 1647: " It was once in my 
thoughts to have printed Mr, 
Fletcher's works by themselves, 
because, single and alone, he would 
make a just volume; but since 
never parted while they lived, I 
conceived it not equitable to sepa- 
rate their ashes." It is probably a 
shock to most readers when they 
learn that comparatively few of the 
fifty-odd plays which comprise the 
enormous corpus dramaticum tra- 
ditionally bearing the name of 
" Beaumont and Fletcher " are the 
work of the " Dioscuri of English 
drama ". The truth is that " Beau- 
mont and Fletcher " became a kind 

of formula; even so early as 1619 
we find Jonson speaking of a play 
as by " Flcsher and Beaumont "; 
a eulogistic poem addressed to 
Fletcher makes it quite clear that 
Jonson knew that Beaumont had 
no hand in this particular play, 
The Faithful Shepherdess. It is now 
believed that only about nine of 
the plays (some of these, however, 
among the best) are written by 
Beaumont and Fletcher; two are 
the work of Beaumont alone; fifteen 
are the work of Fletcher alone; 
some eighteen are by Fletcher and 
Massinger; some four are by 
Fletcher and some other colla- 
borator; and in, live or six neither 
Beaumont nor Fletcher had any 
appreciable share. All these figures 
are to be received with caution, as 
doctors (designate and otherwise) 
differ with some violence about the 
authorship of many of the plays. 
It is usually thought or repeated 
that Fletcher contributed the wit 
and Beaumont the judgment to the 
plays which they wrote together, 
and that Beaumont's function was 
to act as a kind of brake upon 
Fletcher's runaway genius (" Suf- 
flamlnandits erat, as Augustus said 
of Hatcrius "). We know much 
more about Fletcher's work than 
we do about Beaumont's; but this 
idea is probably wrong, or at any 
rate requires very considerable 
modification. We do know that 
Beaumont, though a man of higher 
seriousness (tnrovfauQTGpo^) than his 
partner, had the complementary 
gift of excelling in burlesque or 
mock-heroic writing; that line skit 
The Knight of the Burning Pestle 
is probably his unaided work. 
Fletcher's fluent and facile genius 
excelled in comedy or tragi-comedy 
rather than tragedy; he had a great 


gift for writing lyrics beautiful 
songs unequalled by any save those 
of Shakespeare. Of all the plays 
The Maid's Tragedy, really by 
Beaumont and Fletcher, is the most 
famous; Bonduca (Fletcher and 
someone else) is a fine tragedy 
based on early British history; 
Philaster (mainly Beaumont) is a 
good tragi-comedy resembling Cym- 
beline\ while of the comedies none 
is better than The Wild-Goose 
Chase (Fletcher alone). It is said 
of this play that, notwithstanding 
his innate modesty, the author, 
when he saw it performed, could 
not forbear to join in the general 
applause. Other plays which are 
of outstanding merit are: A King 
and no King (Beaumont and 
Fletcher); Valentinian (Fletcher 
alone); Fletcher's supremely beau- 
tiful pastoral play The Faithful 
Shepherdess] The Woman's Prize 
(Fletcher), a pleasing sequel to 
The Taming of the Shrew; Sir John 
van Olden Barnavelt (Fletcher and 
Massinger), acted in August, 1619, 
and founded on the events of the 
previous May; The Beggars* Bush 
(Fletcher and Massinger); and 
The Elder Brother (Fletcher and 
Massinger), But indeed in all the 
other plays, which are too numerous 
to mention, a very high standard of 
competence is maintained. Fletcher 
wrote a considerable part of Henry 
VIII, and there is little doubt that 
Shakespeare had a hand or at least 
a finger in The Two Noble Kinsmen. 
It cannot be said that the innumer- 
able problems connected with the 
authorship of the " Beaumont and 
Fletcher " plays have been solved 
or even treated satisfactorily. Mas- 
singer was, apparently, Fletcher's 
chief partner; but Fletcher also 
collaborated with William Rowley, 

Field, Tourneur, Jonson, and Da- 
borne, and Shirley seems to have 
further complicated the issue by 
revising several of the fifty-odd 
plays. In dealing with these matters, 
several editors appear to rely too 
much on their inner consciousness. 
It is hard to separate into its com- 
ponent parts the work of two such 
close friends and partners so close 
that they might have written " Je 
somrnes ", as an irreverent French- 
man did in another connexion. 

The Beaumont and Fletcher 
plays are good in passages, and 
must have been most effective on 
the stage. Fletcher, in particular, 
was a master of stage-craft. They 
never hang fire, and have plenty 
of incident and plot in them, in that 
respect comparing most favourably 
with the work of Jonson and his 
school. In many cases two stories 
are combined to form one play, 
lest the interest should ever flag. 
There is, however, an incoherence 
and a fatal fluency about these 
plays, and what is worse, they be- 
tray a defect of moral vision. 
Shakespeare's comedy was the full 
round comedy of life; Fletcher's is 
the thin, flat comedy of intrigue. 
The characters of Beaumont and 
Fletcher are fleeting shades, who 
have not drunk of the blood of life, 
and therefore lead a shadowy exis- 
tence. And yet in many ways 
"Beaumont and Fletcher" stand 
next to Shakespeare among con- 
temporary dramatists. Jonson and 
Marlowe are writers of heavier 
metal; Beaumont and Fletcher are 
"metal more attractive' 1 . In a 
famous passage Fuller has com- 
pared Jonson to a Spanish galleon 
and Shakespeare to an English 
man-of-war; Beaumont and Flet- 
cher may be likened to a yacht, 


with "Youth on the prow and Francis Beaumont; 0. L. Hatcher, 

Pleasure at the helm ". John Fletcher, a study in dramatic 

[Editions by A. H. Bullcn, and method; A. II. Thorndike, The 

by A. Glover and A. R. Waller; Influence of Beaumont and Fletcher 

G. C. Macaulay, Francis Beaumont, on Shakespeare] E. H. Oliphant, 

a critical study, C. M. Gayley, The Plays of Beaumont and Fletcher] 

Song from a Tlie Maid's Tragedy" 

Lay a garland on my hearse 

Of the dismal yew; 
Maidens, willow branches bear; 

Say, I died true. 

My love was false, but I was firm 

From my hour of birth. 
Upon my buried body lie 

Lightly, gentle earth! 

From "The Two Noble Kinsmen 

Roses, their sharp spines being gone, 
Not royal in their smells alone, 

But in their hue; 
Maiden-pinks, of odour faint, 
Daisies smell-less yet most quaint, 

And sweet thyme true; 

Primrose, first-born child of Vcr, 
Merry spring-time's harbinger, 

With her bells dim; 
Oxlips in their cradles growing, 
Mangolds on death-beds blowing, 

Larks'-heels trim. 

All, dear Nature's children sweet, 
Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet, 

Blessing their sense! 
Not an angel of the air, 
Bird melodious or bird fair, 

Be absent hence! 


The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor 
The boding raven, nor chough hoar, 

Nor chattering pie, 

May on our bride-house perch or sing, 
Or with them any discord bring, 

But from it fly! 

Invocation to Sleep 

From " Valentinian " 

Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, 
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose 
On this afflicted prince ; fall like a cloud 
In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud 
Or painful to his slumbers; easy, sweet, 
And as a purling stream, thou son of night, 
Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain 
Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain; 
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide, 
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride ! 

From "The Queen of Corinth" 

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan; 
Sorrow calls no time that's gone; 
Violets plucked the sweetest rain 
Makes not fresh nor grow again ; 
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully; 
Fate's hid ends eyes cannot see; 
Joys as winged dreams fly fast, 
Why should sadness longer last? 
Grief is but a wound to woe; 
Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no mo. 

From "The Nice Valour" 

Hence, all you vain delights, 
As short as are the nights 

Wherein you spend your folly! 
There's nought in this life sweet, 
If man were wise to see't, 

But only melancholy; 


sweetest melancholy! 
Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes, 
A sigh that piercing mortifies, 
A look that's fasten M to the ground, 
A tongue chain 'd up without u sound! 
Fountain heads and. pathless groves, 
Places which pale passion loves! 
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
Are warmly hous'd save bats and owls! 
A midnight bell, a parting groan, 
These are the sounds we feed upon; 

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ; 

Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. 

Philaster; or. Love Lies a-Bleeding 

(PHILASTER tells the Princess ARETIIUSA how he first 
found the boy BELLARIO.) 


I have a boy sent by the gods, 

Not yet seen in the court; hunting the buck, 

I found him sitting by a fountain side, 

Of which he borrow M some to quench his thirst; 

And paid the nymph again as much in tears ; 

A garland lay him by, made by himself, 

Of many several flowers, bred in the bay, 

Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness 

Delighted me: but ever when he turn'd 

His tender eyes upon them, he would weep, 

As if he meant to make them grow again. 

Seeing such pretty helpless innocence 

Dwell in his face, I ask'd him all his story; 

He told me that his parents gentle died, 

Leaving him to the mercy of the fields, 

Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs, 

Which did not stop their courses; and the sun, 

Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him his light. 

Then took he up his garland and did show, 

What every flower, as country people hold, 

Did signify; and how all ordered thus, 

Express'd his grief: and to my thoughts did read 

The prettiest lecture of his country art 


That could be wish'd, so that, methought, I could 
Have studied it. I gladly entertain J d him, 
Who was as glad to follow; and have got 
The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy, 
That ever master kept: him will I send 
To wait on you, and bear our hidden love. 

ers BELLARIO to the service of 
the Princess ARETHUSA.) 


And thou shalt find her honourable, boy, 

Full of regard unto thy tender youth, 

For thine own modesty; and for my sake, 

Apter to give, than thou wilt be to ask, ay, or deserve. 


Sir, you did take me up when I was nothing, 

And only yet am something by being yours ; 

You trusted me unknown; and that which you are apt 

To construe a simple innocence in me, 

Perhaps might have been craft, the cunning of a boy 

Harden J d in lies and theft; yet ventured you 

To part my miseries and me; for which, 

I never can expect to serve a lady 

That bears more honour in her breast than you. 


But, boy, it will prefer thee; thou art young, 

And bear'st a childish overflowing love 

To them that clap thy cheeks and speak thee fair yet. 

But when thy judgment conies to rule those passions, 

Thou wilt remember best those careful friends 

That place thee in the noblest way of life: 

She is a princess I prefer thee to. 


In that small time that I have seen the world, 
I never knew a man hasty to part 
With a servant he thought trusty; I remember, 
My father would prefer the boys he kept 
To greater men than he, but did it not 

Till they were grown too saucy for himself. 
VOL. ii. 40 



Why, gentle boy, I find no fault at all 
In thy behaviour. 


Sir, if I have made 

A fault of ignorance, instruct my youth ; 
I shall be willing, if not apt, to learn. 
Age and experience will adorn my mind 
With larger knowledge: and if I have done 
A wilful fault, think me not past all hope 
P'or once; what master holds so strict a hand 
Over his boy, that he will part with him 
Without one warning? Let me be corrected 
To break my stubbornness if it be so, 
Rather than turn me off, and I shall mend. 


Thy love cloth plead so prettily to stay, 

That, trust me, I could weep to part with thee. 

Alas, I do not turn thee off; thou knowest 

It is my business that doth call thee hence, 

And when thou art with her thou dwell'st with me: 

Think so, and 'tis so; and when time is full, 

That thou hast well discharged this heavy trust, 

Laid on so weak a one, I will again 

With joy receive thee; as I live, I will; 

Nay, weep not, gentle boy ; 'tis more than time 

Thou didst attend the princess. 

I am gone; 

But since I am to part with you, my lord, 
And none knows whether I shall live to do 
More service for you, take this little prayer; 
Heaven bless your loves, your fights, all your designs, 
May sick men, if they have your wish, be well; 
And Heaven hate those you curse, though I be one. 

(BELLARIO describes to the Princess ARETHUSA the manner of 
his master PHILASTER'S love for her.) 

Sir, you are sad to change your service, is't not so? 



Madam, I have not changed: I wait on you, 
To do him service. 


Thou disclaim 'st in me; 
Tell me thy name. 


Thou canst sing and play? 

If grief will give me leave, madam, I can. 


Alas! what kind of grief can thy years know? 

Hadst thou a curst master when thou went'st to school? 

Thou art not capable of any other grief; 

Thy brows and cheeks are smooth as waters be, 

When no breath troubles them: believe me, boy. 

Care seeks out w r rinkled brows, and hollow eyes, 

And builds himself caves to abide in them. 

Come, sir, tell me truly, does your lord love me? 

Love, madam? I know not what it is. 


Canst thou know r grief, and never yet knew'st love? 
Thou art deceived, boy. Does he speak of me 
As if he wish'd me well? 

If it be love, 

To forget all respect of his own friends, 
In thinking of your face; if it be love, 
To sit cross-arm'd and sigh aw r ay the day, 
Mingled with starts, crying your name as loud 
And hastily, as men in the streets do fire; 


If it be love to weep himself away, 

When he but hears of any lady dead, 

Or kill'd, because it might have been your chance; 

If when he goes to rest (which will not be) 

Twixt every prayer he says to name you once, 

As others drop a head, be to be in love; 

Then, madam, I dare swear he loves you, 


you are a cunning boy, and taught to He 
For your lord's credit; but thou know'st a lie 
That bears this sound, is welcomer to me 
Than any truth that says he loves me not. 

(PIIILASTER is jealous o/ BELLARIO with iJie Princess.) - 


Health to you, my lord; 

The princess doth commend her love, her life, 

And this unto you. 


Now I perceive she loves me, she does show it 
In loving thee, my boy; she has made thee brave. 


My lord, she has attired me past my wish, 
Past my desert, more fit for her attendant, 
Though far unfit for me who do attend. 


Thou art grown courtly, boy. let all women 

That love black deeds learn to dissemble here. 

Here by this paper she does write to rnc 

As if her heart were mines of adamant 

To all the world besides, but unto me 

A maiden snow that melted with my looks. 

Tell me, my boy, how doth the princess use thee? 

For I shall guess her love to me by that. 


Scarce like her servant, but as if I were 
Something allied to her; or had preserved 


Her life three times by my fidelity; 

As mothers fond do use their only sons ; 

As I'd use one that's left unto my trust, 

For whom my life should pay if he met harm, 

So she does use me. 


Why this is wondrous well: 

But what kind language does she feed thee with? 


Why, she does tell me, she will trust my youth 
With all her loving secrets, and does call me 
Her pretty servant, bids me weep no more 
For leaving you; she'll see my services 
Regarded: and such words of that soft strain, 
That I am nearer weeping when she ends 
Than ere she spake. 

This is much better still. 

Are you ill, my lord? 

111? No, Bellario. 


Methinks your words 
Fall not from off your tongue so evenly, 
Nor is there in your looks that quietness, 
That I was wont to see. 

Thou art deceived, boy. And she strokes thy head? 


And she does clap thy cheeks? 

She does, my lord. 



And she docs kiss thee, boy, lui? 

I low, my lord? 

She kisses thec? 

Not so, my lord, 

Come, come, 1 know she does. 


No, by my life, 

Ay now I sec why my disturbed thoughts 
Were so perplexed when first I went to her; 
My heart held augury. You are abused, 
Some villain has abused yon; 1 do see 
Whereto you tend; fall rocks upon his head, 
That put this to you; 'tis some subtle train 
To bring that noble frame of yours to naught, 


Thou think 'st I will be angry with thee. Come, 
Thou shalt know all my drift. I hate her more, 
Than I love happiness, and placed thee there 
To pry with narrow eyes into her deeds* 
Hast thou discover'd? is she fallen to lust, 
As I would wish her? Speak some comfort to me 


My lord, you did mistake the boy you sent: 
Had she a sin that way, hid from the world, 
I would not aid 

Her base desires; but what I came to know 
As servant to her, I would not reveal, 
To make my life last ages. 

O my heart! 
This is a salve worse than the main disease. 


Tell me thy thoughts; for I will know the least 
That dwells within thee, or will rip thy heart 
To know it; I will see thy thoughts as plain 
As I do know thy face. 

Why, so you do. 

She is (for aught I know), by all the gods, 
As chaste as ice; but were she foul as hell. 
And I did know it, thus; the breath of kings, 
The points of swords, tortures, nor bulls of brass, 
Should draw it from me. 


Then It is no time 

To dally with thee; I will take thy life, 

For I do hate thee; I could curse thee now. 


If you do hate, you could not curse me worse; 
The gods have not a punishment in store 
Greater for me than is your hate. 

Fie, fie, 

So young and so dissembling! fear'st thou not death? 
Can boys contemn that? 


0, what boy is he 
Can be content to live to be a man, 
That sees the best of men thus passionate, 
Thus without reason? 

0, but thou dost not know what 'tis to die. 


Yes, I do know, my lord! 

'Tis less than to be born; a lasting sleep, 

A quiet resting from all jealousy; 

A thing we all pursue; I know besides 

It is but giving over of a game 

That must be lost. 



But there are pains, false boy, 

For perjured souls; think but on these, and then 

Thy heart will melt, and thou wilt utter all. 


May they fall all upon me whilst I live, 
If I be perjured, or have ever thought, 
Of that you charge me with; if I be false, 
Send me to suffer in those punishments 
You speak of; kill me, 


0, what should I do? 

Why, who can but believe him? lie does swear 

So earnestly, that if it were not true, 

The gods would not endure him. Rise, Bellario; 

Thy protestations are so deep, and thou 

Dost look so truly when thou utter'st them, 

That though I know them false, as were my hopes, 

I cannot urge thec further; but thou wcrt 

To blame to injure me, for I must love 

Thy honest looks, and take no revenge upon 

Thy tender youth: a love from me to thec 

Is firm whatever thou dost: it troubles me 

That I have call'd the blood out of thy cheeks, 

That did so well become thee: but, good boy, 

Let me not see thee more; something is clone 

That will distract me, that will make me mad, 

If I behold thee; if thou tender'st me, 

Let me not see thee. 

I will fly as far 

As there is morning, ere I give distaste 
To that most honour'd mind. But through these tears, 
Shed at my hopeless parting, I can see 
A world of treason practised upon you, 
And her, and me. Farewell for evermore; 
If you shall hear that sorrow struck me dead, 
And after find me loyal, let there be 
A tear shed from you in my memory, 
And I shall rest at peace. 




BENJAMIN JONSON, usually during 
his lifetime and now invariably 
called " Ben ", was born at West- 
minster in 1572. His father, who, 
after being a sufferer in the Marian 
persecution, had become a minister, 
died before Ben was born, leaving 
his wife in straitened circumstances. 
Jonson was educated at West- 
minster School, owing, it is be- 
lieved, to the kindness of Camden, 
who at that time was an assistant- 
master there. It is a pious article 
of belief that Jonson continued his 
studies at St. John's College, Cam- 
bridge, but there is no actual proof 
of this, and if he w r as in residence 
at all, it can only have been for a 
few weeks. His mother had re- 
married about two years after the 
birth of her son; her second hus- 
band was a master-bricklayer, and 
Jonson was put to work with him. 
He did not like this employment, 
so enlisted in the army and went to 
the Low Countries, where the 
English troops were fighting the 
Spaniards. He killed an enemy in 
single combat and took opima 
spolia from him. He soon returned 
to England, and began to work for 
the Admiral's company both as 
playwright and actor. Some of his 
early plays were probably written 
in collaboration and were regarded 
by their author as hack-work, and 
so are not preserved. Meres in his 
Palladis Tamia (1598) mentions 
Jonson as among the best for 
tragedy; but his early tragedies are 
lost. On 22nd September, 1598, 
Jonson killed a fellow-actor, Gabriel 
Spencer, in a duel; he was almost 

hanged for this breach of the 
Queen's peace, only escaping by 
benefit of clergy. He forfeited his 
goods and chattels, and was branded 
on his left thumb with the Tyburn 
T. During his imprisonment he 
became a Papist, and so continued 
for twelve years. In 1605 Jonson 
was again imprisoned; he had 
collaborated with Chapman and 
Marston in a play called Eastward 
Ho, which was considered by a 
sensitive follower of King James I 
to contain some unpardonable as- 
persions upon the Scottish nation. 
The three authors were sent to 
gaol, Jonson, whose share in the 
play was a small one, voluntarily 
surrendering himself. The report 
was that they were to have their 
ears and noses cut, but they were 
released unpunished, the Scottish 
knight w r ho accused them having 
perhaps realized that another sur- 
gical operation was more urgent. 
In 1613 Jonson went to France as 
tutor to Sir Walter Raleigh's elder 
son. In 1618 he journeyed, to Scot- 
land on foot, leaving London prob- 
ably about June, and starting on his 
return journey on 25th January, 
1619. He spent a fortnight or so in 
December, 1618, at Hawthorn- 
den with the poet William Drum- 
mond, who wrote notes of his con- 
versations with Jonson, desultory 
but priceless, for his own edifica- 
tion and with no idea of publish- 
ing them. These notes were first 
printed in a garbled form in 1711; 
the first adequate edition, repro- 
ducing a transcript made by Sir 
Robert Sibbald the antiquary, was 



produced by David Laing in 1842. 
In 1619 Jonson was created an 
M.A, of Oxford; in 1628 he suc- 
ceeded Middleton as City Chrono- 
loger. In spite of an overwhelming 
tradition to the contrary, firmly 
embedded in all textbooks, Jonson 
was never Poet Laureate de jure] 
de facto he occupied a position 
somewhat equivalent to it. During 
his later years Jonson gathered 
round him many young men who 
loved to be called his sons and to 
be " sealed of the tribe of Ben- 
jamin "; he reigned as dldator 
perpetuus over a sort of club which 
met _ in the Apollo Room of the 
Devil Tavern. He was long in 
ill -health, suffering from dropsy, 
scrofula, gout, and paralysis. After 
his death, which took place on 
6th August, 1637, he was buried 
in the north side of the nave of 
Westminster Abbey, and the inscrip- 
tion " rare Ben Jonson " was 
cut on his slab by the order of a 
casual visitor. 

Jonson's earliest extant play may 
have been The Case is Altered, 
a meritorious but un-Jonsonian 
comedy. His first great play, 
Every Man in his Humour -, appeared 
at the Globe in 1598. Shakespeare 
was one of the cast, and there is a 
strong tradition that the play was 
accepted owing to his intervention. 
This play is of the greatest impor- 
tance ^ in ^ English dramatic history, 
and is in itself an amusing and 
spontaneous play, which its author 
was not able to surpass for some 
seven years. Its companion piece, 
Every Man out of his Humour 
(1599), is much less pleasing. There 
is an undercurrent of bitterness 
running through it, and its humor- 
pus characters are caricatures of 
impossible persons. It has, how- 

ever, several amusing scenes. Cyn- 
thia's Revels, performed in 1600 
by the children of the Queen's 
Chapel, is an unsuccessful return 
to _ Lylyesque allegorical comedy. 
It is long and well-written, but has 
lost much of the sparkle which it 
originally possessed'. The Poetaster 
(1601) is a much livelier play. It is 
a counter-attack upon Dekker and 
Marston, the latter of whom had 
already represented Jonson on the 
stage. It ends with a highly comic 
scene, based upon Lucian's Lexl- 
phanes, in which Marston vomits 
up all his crudities of diction. 
Jonson was disappointed with his 
success as a writer of comedies, 
and resolved to transfer his atten- 
tions to tragedy. Sqanus (1603) is 
the result. It is a carefully written 
tragedy, which adhcrs most scrupu- 
lously to Tacitus and the other 
authorities, but it lias little action, 
and fails to give almost everything 
that is required in a tragedy. A 
similar verdict may be given upon 
the other tragedy, Catiline (1611), 
where Jonson had a somewhat 
better subject, and treated it if 
anything less adequately. In 1605 
Jonson's masterpiece, Volpone, was 
acted both at the Globe and at the 
two Universities. It is a scathing 
satire on greed and avarice, based 
in part upon some incidents in the 
Satiricon of Petronius. It is a well- 
constructed and marvellously clever 
play, but its subject is repellent, 
and it is stretching language to the 
uttermost to call it a comedy. 
Epicoenc, or the Silent Woman 
(1609) is a masterpiece of farce, 
and is well-constructed, though, 
like some of Barrie's plays, it is 
based upon a trick, and is less 
effective when seen or read for the 
second time. It is, perhaps, the 



best-tempered of all the plays. 
The Alchemist (1610) is another 
masterpiece; it is a bitter satire 
on greed and lust. There is some- 
thing of the spirit of Plautus in it, 
but it is anima Plautina habitans 
in sicco the soul of Plautus dwell- 
ing in waterless places. The last of 
the great plays is Bartholomew 
Fair (1614), a crude and realistic 
farce, which depicts low life in 
London with admirable, if some- 
times unsavoury, fidelity. The 
Devil is an Ass (1616) marks a dis- 
tinct decline. In it Jonson harked 
back to some features of the old 
morality-play, and though there is 
an amusing satire upon the " pro- 
jectors " of the time, the play as a 
whole is neither w r ell- constructed 
nor witty. He did not \vrite any 
more stage-plays until 1625, when 
The Staple of News appeared. It is 
an unsuccessful attempt to mix 
allegory and Aristophanic comedy. 
Swinburne praised it excessively, 
but it has not many other admirers. 
The New Inn, produced in 1629, 
was a complete failure, and was not 
heard to the end. It is a play with 
a romantic plot more absurd than 
can be easily imagined. There are 
passages of fine writing in it, but 
as a whole it is marred by extra- 
vagance and improbability. The 
Magnetic Lady (1632) was intended 
to complete the cycle of plays 
dealing with " humours ", but it is 
a feeble play in comparison with its 
companion pieces. A Tale of a Tub 

(1633) i s tne l ast f Jonson's plays, 
though there is some reason to 
suppose that it is a youthful pro- 
duction of Jonson's which he 
refurbished in his old age. It is a 
good straightforward rustic farce 
with no pretence to depth, but 
much less tedious than the plays 

of Jonson J s old age. When Jonson 
died, in 1637, he left two dramatic 
fragments behind him, one the 
beautiful pastoral play of The Sad 
Shepherd, of which we have nearly 
three complete acts, and the other 
a small fragment of seventy lines 
of a tragedy on The Fall of Morti- 
mer. The Sad Shepherd, in spite of 
occasional lapses of taste and dis- 
plays of artificiality and simplesse, 
is a marvellous play, and has a rich 
vein of poetry and fancy in it. It 
makes us revise some of our 
opinions about Jonson. The frag- 
ment of Mortimer does not make 
us feel any regret that it was not 

From 1605 to 1630 Jonson wrote 
many masques for performance at 
court. He was the principal masque- 
writer of his time; if he did not 
invent the masque, he certainly 
brought it to perfection; when 
Inigo Jones, who designed the 
dresses and scenery, quarrelled 
with Jonson and insisted on having 
another librettist, the masque im- 
mediately declined. Masques were 
mainly designed to display the 
expensive dresses and elaborate 
dances of the noble lords and 
ladies who performed in them. 
They did not give much scope to 
the librettist, and Jonson's masques 
do not rise, except occasionally, 
above the level of mediocrity as 
poetry, though as masques they are 
the best we have. The best of them 
are: The Masque of Queens (1609), 
Love Restored (1611), and News 
from the New World Discovered in 
the Moon (1621). Jonson also wrote 
several " entertainments ", which 
were in some respects akin to 
masques, but not identical with 
them, their central feature being a 
speech of welcome, not a dance. 



Jonson wrote a large quantity of 
verse of various kindsepigrams, 
addresses, lyrics, elegies, and 
epistles; little of it, however, is 
superlatively good, though much 
of it is well-expressed and weighty. 
Jonson had not the lyric touch his 
best-known song, Drink to me only 
with thine eyes, being quite excep- 
tional, as well as being based on 
some passages in the letters of 
Philostratus. Some of his poems 
appeared under the title of Epi- 
grams and The Forest in the folio 
edition of his works which was 
published in 1616, Others, under 
the title Underwoods, appeared in 
the 1640 folio. 

Jonson left two incomplete prose 
works behind him when he died. 
One was Timber, or Discoveries 
made upon Men and Matter , which 
was long thought to be a series of 
somewhat disjointed but original 
essays, and which was extrava- 
gantly eulogized by Swinburne as 
such. It has now been carefully 
analysed, and appears to be a sort 
of commonplace book, probably not 
intended for publication, in which 
Jonson noted down passages which 
appealed to him, sometimes trans- 
lating or adapting from the classics, 
and sometimes from contemporary 
classical scholars. The other work 
is an English Grammar , modelled 
closely on Lily's Latin Grammar, 
and interesting chiefly as illustrat- 
ing the self-conscious nature of 
Jonson's craftsmanship. 

Among a cloud of somewhat 
nebulous contemporaries, the figure 
of Jonsoa stands out solid and well- 
defined. We have a clear picture 
of him fighting his battles /nth 
sword and with pen, giving no 
quarter and expecting none. We 

sec him, aged forty-six and weigh- 
ing almost twenty stone, advancing 
slowly on Scotland like a tank, and 
scandalizing the douce laird of 
Ilawthornclcn. We see him in the 
Apollo Room, drinking deep, and, 
like an antique Roman, enforcing 
to the utmost his pairia potcstas 
against any of his sons who were 
recalcitrant. lie is perhaps the 
greatest of all the Elizabethans 
after Shakespeare, and yet his 
plays are seldom, read and hardly 
ever acted. His qualities arouse 
admiration rather than enthusiasm. 
lie was a titanic workman with a 
strong sense of his own importance 
and an ever-present idea of the 
sacred nature of his mission as a 
poet. Ho lacked, the divine fire, 
and so was not successful in much 
of his work, though no one else 
has so nearly taken the kingdom of 
poetry by storm. His work is quite 
devoid of charm, whimsicality, and 
the capaciousness of the Comic 
Muse. The saving grace of non- 
sense rarely comes to his rescue. 
Yet he is a colossal figure in English 
letters, and is always wise and 
weighty in his thought. Above all, 
he is transparently honest, delight- 
fully uncompromising, and un- 
flinchingly manly in everything 
that he wrote. 

[C. II. llcrford and P. Simpson, 
The Oxford Jonson,} M. Castelain, 
Ben Jonson: Chomme ctTwiwre] G. 
Gregory Smith, lien Jonson (Eng- 
lish Men of Letters Series); A. C. 
Swinburne, A Study of Ben Jon- 
son; J. A, Symonds, Ben Jonson 
(English Worthies Series); Sir A. 
W. Ward, History of English Dra- 
matic Literature^ R. P. Patterson, 
Ben Jonson 1 s Conversations with 
William Dnimmond ofliawthornden.] 



From the painting after Gerard Honthorst in the National 

Portrait Gallery 


From "Every Man in his Humour 55 


Matthew. Sir, did your eyes ever taste the like Clown of him, where 
we were to-day, Mr. Well-bred's half Brother? I think the whole Earth 
cannot shew his Parallel by this Day-light. 

Ed. Kno'well. We were now speaking of him: Captain Bobadil 
tells me he is fallen foul o j you too. 

Matthew. O, I Sir, he threatned me with the Bastinado. 
Bobadil. I, but I think, I taught you prevention this Morning, for 
that You shall kill him beyond question: if you be so generously 

Matthew. Indeed, it is a most excellent Trickl 
Bobadil. O, you do not give spirit enough to your motion, you are 
too tardy, too heavy! O, it must be done like lightning, hay? 

[He practises at a Post. 
Matthew. "Rare Captain! 

Bobadil. -Tut, 'tis nothing, an't be not done in a puntol 
Ed. Kno'welL Captain, did you ever prove your self upon any of our 
Masters of defence here? 

Matthew. O good Sirl yes I hope he has. 

Bobadil. I will tell you, Sir. Upon my first coming to the City, 
after my long travail, for knowledg (in that mistery only) there came 
three or four of 'em to me, at a Gentlemans House, where it was my 
chance to be resident at that time, to intreat my Presence at their Schools; 
and withal so much importun'cl me, that (I protest to you, as I am a 
Gentleman) I was asharn'd of their rude demeanour out of all measure: 
well, I told 'em that to come to a publick School, they should, pardon 
me, it was opposite (in diameter) to my Humour; but, if so be they would 
give their attendance at my lodging, I protested to do them what right or 
favour I could, as I was a Gentleman, and so forth. 
Ed. Kno'welLSo, Sir, then you tryed their skill? 
jB06<w&7. Alas, soon tryed! you shall hear Sir. Within two or three 
days after they came; and, by honesty, fair Sir, believe me, I grac'd 
them exceedingly, shew'd them some two or three tricks of prevention, 
have purchased 'em since a Credit to admiration! they cannot deny 
this: and yet now they hate me, and why? because I am excellent, and 
for no other vile Reason on the Earth. 

Ed. Kno'welL This is strange and barbarous! as ever I heard. 
Bobadil.N*y 9 for a more instance of their preposterous natures; 
but note, Sir. They have assaulted me some three, four, five, six of them 
together, as I have walkt alone in divers Skirts i' the Town, as Turn- 


bull, White-chappel, Shore-ditch, which were then my Quarters; and since, 
upon the Exchange, at my Lodging, and at my Ordinary: where I have 
driven them afore me the whole length of a Street, in the open view 
of all our Gallants, pitying to hurt them, believe me. Yet all this Lenity 
will not o 're-come their Spleen; they will be doing with the Pismier, 
raising a Hill a Man may spurn abroad with his Foot at pleasure. By 
my self I could have slain them all, but I delight not in Murder. I am 
loth to bear any other than this Bastinado for 'em: yet I hold it good 
polity not to go disarm 'd, for though I be skilful, I may be oppress 'd 
with Multitudes. 

Ed. Kno'well. I, believe me, may you Sir: and (in my conceit) our 
whole Nation should sustain the loss by it, if it were so. 

Bobadil. Alas no: what's a peculiar Man to a Nation? not seen. 
Ed. Kno'well, O, but your skill, Sir. 

Bobadil. Indeed, that might be some loss; but who respects it? 
I will tell you, Sir, by the way of private, and under Seal; I am a Gentle- 
man, and live here obscure, and to my self; but, were I known to Her 
Majesty and the Lords (observe me) I would undertake (upon this poor 
Head and Life) for the publick benefit of the State, not only to spare 
the intire Lives of her Subjects in general, but to save the one half; nay, 
three parts of her yearly charge in holding War, and against what Enemy 
soever. And how would I do it think you? 

Ed. Kno'well. Nay, I know not, nor can I conceive. 
Bobadil Why thus, sir. I would select Nineteen more, to my self 
throughout the Land; Gentlemen they should be of good Spirit, strong 
and able Constitution, I would choose them by an instinct, a Character 
that I have: And I would teach these Nineteen the special Rules, as your 
Punto, your Reverso, your S 'toccata, your Imbroccata, your Passada, your 
Montanto; till they could all play very near, or altogether as well as my 
self. This done, say the Enemy were Forty thousand strong, we Twenty 
would come into the Field the Tenth of March, or thereabouts; and 
we would challenge Twenty of the Enemy; they could not in their 
Honour refuse us; well we would kill them; challenge Twenty more, 
kill them; Twenty more, kill them; Twenty more, kill them too; and 
thus would we kill every Man his Twenty a day, that's Twenty score; 
Twenty score, that's Two hundred; Two hundred a day, five days a 
thousand; Forty thousand; Forty times five, Five times forty, Two 
hundred days kills them all up by Computation. And this will I venture 
my poor Gentleman-like Carcass to perform (provided there be no 
Treason practised upon us) by fair and discreet Manhood; that is, civilly 
by the Sword. 

Ed. Kno'welL Why are you so sure of your hand, Captain, at all 

Bobadil. Tut, never miss thrust upon my Reputation with you. 


Ed. Kno'well.I would not stand in Down-rights state then, an' you 
meet him, for the Wealth of any one Street in London. 

BobadiL Why, Sir, you mistake me! if he were here now, by this 
welkin, I would not draw my Weapon on him! let this Gentleman do 
his mind: but I will bastinado him (by the bright Sun) where ever I meet 

Matthew. Faith, and I'll have a fling at him at my distance. 
Ed. Kno^ell. Gods so; look where he is; yonder he goes. 

[Down-right walks over the stage. 

Dozen-right. What peevish luck have I, I cannot meet with these 
bragging Raskals? 

BobadiL It's not he? is it? 
Ed. Kno'well. Yes faith, it is he. 
Matthew. I'll be hanged then if that were he. 

Ed. Kno'well. Sir, keep your hanging good for some greater matter, 
for I assure you that was he. 

Stephen. Upon my Reputation it was he. 

BobadiL Had I thought it had been he, he must not have gone so: 
but I can hardly be induc'd to believe it was he yet. 

Ed Kno'welL That I think, Sir. But see, he is come again! 
Down-right. O, Pharaohs foot have I found you? Come, draw to your 
Tools; draw Gipsie, or I'll thresh you. 

BobadiL Gentleman of valour, I do believe in thee, hear me 
Down-right. Draw your Weapon then. 

BobadiL Tall Man, I never thought on it till now (body of me) I 
had a Warrant of the Peace served on me, even now as I came along, 
by a Water-bearer; this Gentleman saw it, Mr. Matthew. 
Down-right. 'Sdeath, you will not draw then? 

[He beats him and disarms him, Matthew runs away. 
BobadiL Hold, hold, under thy favour forbear. 

Down-right. Prate again, as you like this, you Whoreson foist you. 
You'll controul the Point, you? Your Consort is gone? had he staid he 
had shar'd with you, Sir. 

BobadiL Well Gentlemen, bear Witness, I was bound to the Peace, 
by this good day. 

Ed. Kno'well. No faith, it's an ill day, Captain, never reckon it 
other: but, say you were bound to the Peace, the Law allows you to 
defend yourself: that'll prove but a poor excuse. 

BobadiL I cannot tell, Sir. I desire good construction in fair sort. 
I never sustain'd the like disgrace (by Heaven) sure I was struck with a 
Plannet thence, for I had no power to touch my Weapon. 

Ed. Kno'welL I, like enough, I have heard of many that have been 
beaten under a Plannet: go, get you to a Surgeon. 'Slid, an' these be 
your Tricks, your passadoes, and your mountantoes, I'll none of them. O, 


manners! that this Age should bring forth such Creatures! that Nature 
should be at leisure to make 'era! Come, Couz. 

Stephen. Mass I'll ha' this Cloke. 

Ed. Kno'well. Gods will, 'tis Down-rights. 

Stephen. Nay, it's mine now, another might have tane't up as well as 
I, I'll wear it, so I will, 

Ed. Rno'well. How an' he see It? he'll challenge it, assure your self, 

Stephen. T, but he shall not ha' it; I'll say I bought it. 

Ed. Kno'welL Take heecl you buy it not too dear Couz. 

(Act IV, Sc. 7.) 

From "Volpone" (The Fox) 


Some Serene blast me, or clire Lightning strike 
This my offending Face. 


Why droops my Celia? 
Thou hast in place of a base Husband, found 
A worthy Lover: use thy Fortune well, 
With secrecy and pleasure. See, behold, 
What thou art Queen of; not in expectation , 
As I feed others: but possessed and crown'd. 
See, here, a Rope of Pearl; and each, more Orient 
Than that the brave /Egyptian Queen carrous'd; 
Dissolve and drink 'em. Sec, a Carbuncle, 
May put out both the Eyes of our St. Mark; 
A Diamond would have brought Laullia Paulina, 
When she came in like Star-light hid with Jewels, 
That were the Spoyls of Provinces; take these, 
And wear, and lose 'em: yet remains an Ear-ring 
To purchase them again, and this whole state. 
A Gem but worth a private Patrimony, 
Is nothing: we will eat such at a Meal. 
The Heads of Parrots, Tongues of Nightingales, 
The Brains of Peacocks, and of Estriches 
Shall be our Food: and, could we get the Phoenix, 
(Though Nature lost her kind) she were our Dish. 


Good Sir, these things might move a Mind affected 
With such delights; but I, whose Innocence 


Is all I can think wealthy, or worth th' enjoying, 
And which once lost, I have nought to lose beyond it, 
Cannot be taken with these sensual Baits: 
If you have Conscience 


Tis the Beggers Vertue, 
If thou hast Wisdom, hear me, Celia. 
Thy Bathes shall be the Juice of July-flowers, 
Spirit of Roses, and of Violets, 
The Milk of Unicorns, and Panthers breath 
Gather 'd in Bags, and mist with Cretan Wines. 
Our drink shall be prepared Gold and Amber; 
Which we will take, until my Roof whirl round 
With the Vertigo: and my Dwarf shall dance, 
My Eunuch sing, my Fool make up the Antick, 
Whilst we, in changed shapes, act Ovids Tales, 
Thou, like Europa now, and I like Jove, 
Then I like Mars, and thou like Erycine: 
So, of the rest, till we have quite run through 
And wearied all the Fables of the Gods. 
Then will I have thee in more modern Forms, 
Attired like some sprightly Dame of France, 
Brave Tuscan Lady, or proud Spanish Beauty; 
Sometimes, unto the Persian Sophies Wife; 
Or the Grand Signiors Mistress; and, for change, 
To one of our most artful Courtizans, 
Or some quick Negro, or cold Russian; 
And I will meet thee in as many shapes: 
Where we may so transfuse our wandring Souls: 
Out at our Lips, and score up sums of Pleasures, 

That the curious shall not know 

How to tell them, as they flow; 
And the envious, when they find 

What their number is, be pind. 

(Act III, Sc. 7.) 

Song. To Celia 

Drink to me, only, with thine Eyes, 
And I will pledge with mine; 

Or leave a Kiss but in the Cup, 

And I'll not look for Wine. 
VOL. ii. 


The Thirst, that from the Soul cloth rise, 

Doth ask a Drink clivinc: 
But might I of Jove's Nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 

I sent thee, late, a rosy Wreath, 

Not so much honoring thee, 
As giving it a hope, that there 

It could not withered be . 
But thou thereon dicTst only breathe, 

And sent'st it back to me: 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 

Not of it self, but thee. 

Chans' Triumph 

Sec the Chariot at Hand here of Love 

Wherein my Lady ridcth! 
Each that draws, is a Swan, or a Dove 

And well the Car Love guideth. 
As she goes, all Hearts do duty 

Unto her Beauty, 

And enamour 'd, do wish, so they might 

But enjoy such a sight ; 

That they still were to run by her side, 
Thorough Swords, thorough Seas, whither she would ride 

Do but look on her Eyes, they do light 

All that Love's World comprised! i 
Do but look on her Hair, it is bright 

As Love's Star when it riseth! 
Do but mark, her Forehead's smoother 

Than words that soothe her! 
And from her arched Brows, such a Grace 

Sheds it self through the face, 

As alone there triumphs to the life 
All the Gain, all the Good of the Elements strife. 

Have you seen but a bright Lily grow, 

Before rude hands have touch'd it? 
Ha J you mark'd but the fall o' the Snow 

Before the Soyl hath smutch'd it? 


Ha' you felt the Wooll of Sever? 


Or Swans Down ever? 
Or have smelt o' the Bud o 5 the Briar? 

Or the Nard in the fire? 
Or have tasted the Bag of the Bee? 
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she! 

An Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy 5 a Boy-actor 

Weep with me all you that read 

This little Story: 
And know for whom a Tear you shed 

Death's self is sorry. 
'Twas a Child, that so did thrive 

In Grace, and Feature, 
As Heaven and Nature seem'd to strive 

Which own'd the Creature. 
Years he numbred scarce Thirteen 

When Fates turn'd cruel, 
Yet three fill'd Zodiacks had he been 

The Stages Jewel; 
And did act (what now we moan) 

Old Men so duly, 
As, sooth, the Parcse thought him one, 

He play'd so truly. 
So, by Error to his Fate 

They all consented; 
But viewing him since (alas, too late) 

They have repented ; 
And have sought (to give new birth) 

In Baths to steep him; 
But, being so much too good for Earth, 

Heaven vows to keep him. 

Discoveries. De Shakespeare Nostrati 

I remember, the Players have often mentioned it as an honour to 
Shakespeare, that in his Writing, (whatsoever he penn'd) he never blotted 
out a Line. My answer hath been, Would he had blotted a thousand. 
Which they thought a malevolent Speech. I had not told Posterity this, 
but for their ignorance, who chose that Circumstance to commend their 
Friend by, wherein he most faulted. And to Justine mine own Candor, 
(for I lov'd the Man, and do honour his Memory (on this side Idolatry) 



as much as any.) He was (indeed) honest, and of an open and free Nature: 
had an excellent Phantsic; brave Notions, and gentle Expressions: "wherein 
he flow'cl with that facility, that sometime it was necessary he should 
be stop'd: Sufflaminandus erat; as Augustus said of Hatcrius. His 
Wit was in his own Power; would the Rule of it had been so too. Many 
times he fell into those things, could not escape laughter: As when he 
said in the Person of Caesar, one speaking to him; Gtcsar thou dost me 
wrong. He reply'd; Ccesar did never wrong, but willi just Cause-, and such 
like; which were ridiculous. But he redeemed his Vices with his Vertues. 
There was ever more in him to be praised, than to be pardoned. 


(? 1580-? 1625) 

WE know that John Webster was 
writing plays between 1602 and 
1624, and that he was a member 
of the Merchant Taylors Company; 
we know scarcely anything more 
about him. We do not know when 
he was bom or when he died, where 
he was educated, or how he earned 
his living. His life is perhaps more 
completely in obscurity than that 
of any important Elizabethan. Dur- 
ing his apprenticeship as a dramatist 
he wrote only in collaboration. He 
collaborated with Middleton and 
several others in two plays, Ctesar's 
Fall and The Two Harpies, and 
assisted Dekker, Hey wood, and 
Wentworth Smith to write Lady 
Jane. The former two plays are 
lost; but Lady Jane is usually 
identified with The Famous History 
of Sir Thomas Wyat, an inverte- 
brate play which bears many traces 
of the hand of Dekker and none of 
the hand of Webster. Webster had 
some share in the second edition of 
Marston's Malcontent (1604), but 
it is probable that his sole contri- 
bution was the introduction, 


work of little merit. The two 
citizen comedies Westward Ho 
and Northward Ho were both 
written in conjunction with Dekker. 
The former probably induced Jon- 
son, Chapman, and Marston to 
write Eastward IIo (1605), which 
in its turn prompted the produc- 
tion of Northward Ho. These 
plays were written in friendly 
rivalry, not enmity; and Dekker's 
and Webster's two plays are good 
and vigorous, though not equal to 
Eastward No. There is much 
evidence to show that Webster was 
a careful and deliberate workman; 
collaboration, therefore, did not 
suit him, and he reserved his 
strength for his original work. The 
earlier of his two great tragic 
masterpieces, The White Devil (also 
known as Vittoria Corombona}^ 
was printed in 1612, and was prob- 
ably written in the previous year. 
The source of its plot has caused 
some investigators considerable 
trouble. The play is founded on 
fact, and the events on which it is 
based took place between 1581 



and 1585. No account of these 
events has been found which corre- 
sponds exactly with the version 
given by Webster. It is probable 
that the alterations which he in- 
troduced were for the purpose of 
making the play more effective on 
the stage, just as Shakespeare 
altered Cinthio w r hen writing 
Othello. Webster's object was to 
make a powerful tragedy, not to 
reconstruct with exactitude what 
actually happened. He has com- 
pletely attained his object, and has 
written a masterly play on the same 
lines as Kyd's crude revenge-plays 
and Tourneur's extravagant tra- 
gedies. The other masterpiece of 
Webster, The Duchess of Malfy, 
is, if anything, more masterly. It 
is based on an old story, winch is 
probably alluded to by Malvolio 
in Twelfth Night, II, v, 45 (" the 
lady of the Strachy married the 
yeoman of the w r ardrobe "). This 
play was probably written about 
1613, though not printed until 
1623. It is a riper play than its 
great predecessor, and is probably 
the greatest non - Shakespearean 
tragedy of Elizabethan times. In 
these two plays Webster shows 
himself to have complete mastery 
over all forms of pity and terror, 
and to be able to raise melodrama 
to the plane of tragedy. Webster's 
other plays include: The Guise and 
A Late Murther of the Sonne upon 
the Mother (with Ford), both lost; 
The Devil's Law-case,, an unequal 
play in which purple patches are 
sewn on some veritable fustian; 
Appiits and Virginia, a play which 
is meritorious rather than masterly; 

and A Cure for a Cuckold, a mix- 
ture of rough farce and romantic 
comedy. He has also been credited 
or debited with the authorship of 
The Thradan Wonder^ a play in 
which he had no share. The usual 
elegy on Henry , Prince of Wales, 
a few occasional poems, and a 
city-pageant, Monuments of Honor 
(1624), comprise the rest of Web- 
ster's extant works. 

Webster's fame rests almost en- 
tirely on his two masterpieces. In 
them he has shown himself to be 
the nearest to Shakespeare among 
his contemporaries as a writer of 
tragedies, and, as Domitius Afer 
said of Virgil, he is " propior primo 
quam tertio ". His plots are not 
well worked out, and his work is 
lessened in value by a certain 
Grand Guignol and macabre ele- 
ment; but he was an artist in 
words, with a marvellous gift of 
phrase. He had the restraint of a 
true master, and he saw deeply 
into the hearts of men. His work 
shares with that of Shakespeare 
the quality of inevitableness; the 
characters of other playwrights 
might have spoken as they do; 
those of Shakespeare and of Web- 
ster must so have spoken. Webster 
is an apt pupil of Shakespeare's; 
not in the letter which killeth, 
but in the spirit which giveth 

[A. C. Swinburne, The Age of 
Shakespeare^ R. C. Brooke, John 
Webster and the Elizabethan Drama, 
E. E. Stoll, John Webster: the 
Periods of his Work. The best 
edition is that of F. L. Lucas (4 
vols., 1927).] 


From a Tlie Duchess of Malfy ?? 

(The DUCHESS'S marriage with ANTONIO being discovered, her 
brother FERDINAND shuts her up in a prison, and torments her 
with various trials of studied cruelty. By his command, BOSOLA, 
the instrument of his devices, shows her the bodies of her husband 
and children counterfeited in wax, as dead.) 


He doth present you this sad spectacle, 
That now you know directly they arc dead, 
Hereafter you may wisely cease to grieve 
For that which cannot be recovered. 


There is not between heaven and earth one wish 

I stay for after this : it wastes me more 

Than were't my picture fashion'd out of wax, 

Stuck with a magical needle, and then buried 

In some foul dunghill; and 'yond's an excellent property 

For a tyrant, which I would account mercy. 

What's that? 


If they would bind me to that lifeless trunk, 
And let me freeze to death. 


Come, you must live. 

Leave this vain sorrow. 

Things being at the worst begin to mend. 

The bee, 

When he hath shot his sting into your hand, 

May then play with your eyelid. 


Good comfortable fellow, 

Persuade a wretch that's broke upon the wheel 

To have all his bones new set; entreat him live 


To be executed again. Who must despatch me? 
I account this world a tedious theatre, 
For I do play a part in't 'gainst my will. 

Come, be of comfort; I will save your life. 


Indeed I have not leisure to attend 

So small a business. 

I will go pray. No: I'll go curse. 


I could curse the stars! 

O fearful. 


And those three smiling seasons of the year 

Into a Russian winter: nay, the world 

To its first chaos. 

Plagues (that make lanes through largest families) 

Consume them! 

Let them like tyrants 

Ne'er be remember'd but for the ill they've done! 

Let all the zealous prayers of mortified 

Churchmen forget them! 

Let heaven a little while cease crowning martyrs, 

To punish them! go, howl them this; and say, I long to bleed: 

It is some mercy, when men kill with speed. [Exit. 

(FERDINAND enters.) 


Excellent, as I would wish: she's plagued in art. 
These presentations are but framed in wax, 
By the curious master in that quality 
Vincentio Lauriola, and she takes them 
For true substantial bodies. 



Why do you do this? 

To bring her to despair. 


Faith, end here; 

And go no further in your cruelty. 
Send her a penitential garment to put on 
Next to her delicate skin, and furnish her 
With beads and prayer-books. 


Damn her; that body of hers, 

While that my blood ran pure in't, was more worth 

Than that, which them wouldst comfort, calPd a soul, 

I'll send her masques of common courtezans, 

Have her meat served up by bawcls and ruffians, 

And ('cause she'll need be mad) I am resolved 

To remove forth the common hospital 

All the mad folk, and place them near her lodging: 

There let them practise together, sing, and dance, 

And act their gambols to the full of the moon. 

(She is kept 'waking with noises of Madmen: and, at last, is 
strangled "by common Executioners.) 


What hideous noise was that? 


Tis the wild consort 

Of madmen, lady; which your tyrant brother 
Hath placed about your lodging: this tyranny 
I think was never practised till this hour. 


Indeed I thank him; nothing but noise and folly 
Can keep me in my right wits, whereas reason 


And silence make me stark mad; sit down, 
Discourse to me some dismal tragedy. 

O, 'twill increase your melancholy. 


Thou art deceived. 

To hear of greater grief would lessen mine. 
This is a prison? 


Yes: but thou shalt live 
To shake this durance off. 

Thou art a fool. 

The robin-redbreast and the nightingale 
Never live long in cages. 


Pray, dry your eyes. 
What think you of, madam? 

Of nothing: 
When I muse thus, I sleep. 

Like a madman, with your eyes open? 


Dost thou think we shall know one another 
In the other world? 

Yes, out of question. 


O that it were possible we might 

But hold some two days' conference with the dead! 

From them I should learn somewhat I am sure 


I never shall know here. I'll tell thec a miracle; 

I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow. 

The heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass, 

The earth of flaming sulphur, yet I am not mad; 

I am acquainted with sad misery, 

As the tann'd galley-slave is with, his oar; 

Necessity makes me suffer constantly, 

And custom makes it easy. Who do I look like now? 


Like to your picture in the gallery: 
A deal of life in show, but none in practice: 
Or rather, like some reverend monument 
Whose ruins are cv'n pitied, 

Very proper: 

And Fortune seems only to have her eyesight, 
To behold my tragedy: how now, 
What noise is that? 

(A SKRVANT oil en.) 


I am come to tell you, 

Your brother hath intended you some sport. 

A great physician, when the Pope was sick 

Of a deep melancholy, presented him 

With several sorts of madmen, which wild object 

(Being full of change and sport) forced him to laugh, 

And so the imposthume broke: the selfsame cure 

The duke intends on you. 

Let them come in. 

(Here follows a Dance of sundry sorts of Madmen, with music 
answerable thereto: after which BQSOLA (like an old wan) enters,) 

Is he mad too? 

I am come to make thy tomb. 


Ha! my tomb? 

Thou speak'st as If I lay upon my deathbed, 
Gasping for breath: dost thou perceive me sick? 

Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sickness is insensible. 

Thou art not mad sure: dost know me? 


Who am I? 


Thou art a box of wormseed; at best but a salvatory of green mummy. 
What's this flesh? a little crudded milk, fantastical puff-paste. Our bodies 
are weaker than those paper-prisons boys use to keep flies in, more con- 
temptible; since ours is to preserve earth-worms. Didst thou ever see a 
lark in a cage? Such is the soul in the body: this world is like her little 
turf of grass; and the heaven o'er our heads, like her looking-glass, only 
gives us a miserable knowledge of the small compass of our prison. 

Am not I thy duchess? 


Thou art some great woman sure, for riot begins to sit on thy forehead 
(clad in grey hairs) twenty years sooner than on a merry milk-maid's. 
Thou sleepest worse, than if a mouse should be forced to take up her 
lodging in a cat's ear: a little infant that breeds its teeth, should it lie 
with thee, would cry out, as if thou wert the more unquiet bedfellow. 

I am Duchess of Malfy still. 


That makes thy sleeps so broken: 

Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright; 

But, look'd too near, have neither heat nor light. 


Thou art very plain. 


My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living. 
I am a tomb -maker. 


And thou comcst to make my tomb? 



Let me be a little merry. 

Of what stuff wilt thou make it? 

Nay, resolve me first; of what fashion? 


Why, do we grow fantastical in our death-bed? 
Do we affect fashion in the grave? 


Most ambitiously. Princes' images on their tombs do not lie as they 
were wont, seeming to pray up to heaven; but with their hands under 
their cheeks (as if they died of the tooth-ache): they are not carved with 
their eyes fixed upon the stars; but, as their minds were wholly bent 
upon the world, the selfsame way they seem to turn their faces. 


Let me know fully therefore the effect 
Of this thy dismal preparation, 
This talk, fit for a charnel. 


Now I shall. [A coffin, cords, and a bell, produced. 

Here is a present from your princely brothers; 
And may it arrive welcome, for it brings 
Last benefit, last sorrow. 



Let me see it. 

I have so much obedience in my blood, 

I wish it in their veins to do them good. 

This is your last presence-chamber. 


my sweet lady! 

Peace, it affrights not me. 


1 am the common bellman, 

That usually is sent to condemn *d persons 
The night before they suffer. 


Even now thou saidst, 
Thou wast a tomb-maker. 


'Twas to bring you 
By degrees to mortification. Listen. 


Hark, now everything is still; 

This screech-owl, and the whistler shrill, 

Call upon our dame aloud, 

And bid her quickly don her shroud. 

Much you had of land and rent; 

Your length in clay's now competent. 

A long war disturb 'd your mind; 

Here your perfect peace is sign'd. 

Of what is't fools make such vain keeping. 

Sin, their conception; their birth, weeping: 

Their life, a general mist of error; 

Their death, a hideous storm of terror. 

Strew your hair with powders sweet, 

Don clean linen, bathe your feet: 

And (the foul fiend more to check) 

A crucifix let bless your neck. 

'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day: 

End your groan, and come away. 



Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers: alas! 
What will you do with my lady? Call for help, 


To whom; to our next neighbours? They are mad folks. 

Farewell, Canola. 

I pray thcc look thou givcst my little boy 

Some syrup for his cold; and let the girl 

Say her prayers ere she sleep .Now what you please; 

What death? 



Strangling, Here arc your executioners. 

I forgive them. 

The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough of the lungs, 
Would do as much as they do. 

Doth not death fright you? 


Who would be afraid on't, 

Knowing to meet such excellent company 

In the other world? 

Yet methinks, 

The manner of your death should much afflict you; 
This cord should terrify you. 

Not a whit. 

What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut 

With diamonds? or to be smother 'd 

With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls? 

I know, death hath ten thousand several doors 

For men to take their exits: and 'tis found 

They go on such strange geometrical hinges, 

You may open them both ways; anyway: (for heaven's sake) 


So I W 7 ere out of your whispering: tell my brothers, 

That I perceive, death (now I'm well awake) 

Best gift is, they can give or I can take. 

I would fain put off my last woman's fault; 

I'd not be tedious to you. 

Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength 

Must pull down heaven upon me. 

Yet stay, heaven gates are not so highly arclrd 

As princes' palaces; they that enter there 

Must go upon their knees. Come, violent death, 

Serve for Mandragora to make me sleep. 

Go tell my brothers; when I am laid out, 

They then may feed in quiet. [They strangle her, kneeling. 

(FERDINAND enters?) 

Is she dead? 


She is what you would have her. 
Fix your eye here. 



Do you not weep? 

Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out. 

The element of water moistens the earth, 

But blood flies upwards and bedews the heavens. 

Cover her face: mine eyes dazzle: she died young. 


I think not so: her infelicity 
Seem'd to have years too many. 


She and I were twins: 

And should I die this instant, I had lived 

Her time to a minute. 



of a Devonshire gentleman, and was 
born about 1552. He was educated 
at Oriel College, Oxford, where he 
did not graduate; and at an early 
age became a soldier, serving in 
France in the Huguenot army at 
Jarnac and Moncontour. He ac- 
companied his half-brother, Sir 
Humphrey Gilbert, on a voyage of 
discovery in 1578; in 1580 he dis- 
tinguished himself in the Irish 
rebellion both by ability and se- 
verity. He held the view that 
leniency to bloody-minded male- 
factors was cruelty to good and 
peaceable subjects. In 1581 he was 
sent to England with dispatches, 
and at once became the queen's 
favourite. The act of gallantry to 
which by tradition he owed his 
advancement is poetically if not 
historically true, and casts a valuable 
light on the characters of Elizabeth 
and Raleigh alike. His rise was 
rapid. In 1584 he obtained a 
charter of colonization and un- 
successfully attempted the settle- 
ment of Virginia in one or two 
following years. In 1584, also, he 
obtained a large share of the for- 
feited Irish estates, and introduced 
there the cultivation of the potato. 
Through the queen's favour he 
obtained licences to sell wine and 
to export woollens, was knighted 
and made Lord Warden of the 
Stannaries or tin-mines (1585), 
vice-admiral of Devon and Corn- 
wall, and captain of the Queen's 
Guard (1587). When the Armada 
threatened England in 1588 Raleigh 

did useful organizing work, but to 
Ins chagrin, his official duties pre- 
vented him from taking a prominent 
part in the actual lighting. He 
always held firmly to the principle 
that attack is the best form of 
defence, and subsequently fitted 
out vessels to attack the Spaniards. 
In 1592 he incurred the queen's 
displeasure by an intrigue with one 
of her maids of honour, Elizabeth 
i Throgmorton. He aggravated his 
offence in the queen's eyes by 
marrying the lady, and was im- 
prisoned for some months and 
banished from court. He never 
regained his former position in the 
queen's alTections. To discover 
the fabled El Dorado or region of 
gold lie planned an expedition to 
Guiana, on which he embarked in 
1595, and reached the Orinoco, 
but was obliged to return after 
having done little more than take 
formal possession of the country 
in the name of Elizabeth. In 1596 
he held a naval command against 
Spain under Lord Howard and the 
Earl of Essex, and assisted at the 
defeat of the Spanish fleet and the 
capture of Cadiz. Next year he 
captured Fayal in the Azores; in 
1600 he became Governor of Jersey. 
James 1, on his accession in 1603, 
had his mind poisoned against 
Raleigh, whom he deprived of all 
his offices. Accused of complicity 
in Lord Cobham's plot in favour of 
Arabella Stewart, Raleigh was 
brought to trial at Winchester (the 
plague was raging in London) in 
Nov., 1603, After a most unfair 

From the portrait (artist unknown) in the National Portrait Gallery 




trial, in which Coke, the Attorney- 
General, disgraced his learned pro- 
fession by an exhibition of rancour 
and brutality, Raleigh was found 
guilty of treason and sentenced to 
death. He was, however, reprieved 
and confined to the Tower. Here 
he remained for twelve years, de- 
voting himself to scientific and 
literary work. In 1616 he obtained 
his release by bribing the favourite 
Villiers, and by offering to open a 
mine of gold which he believed 
to exist near the Orinoco. The 
enterprise proved disastrous. His 
ships were wrecked by tempests 
and their crews prostrated by fever. 
Raleigh himself nearly died, and 
his beloved elder son was killed 
fighting the Spaniards at San 
Tomas. Laurence Kemys, who had 
led this ill-omened shore expedition, 
drove a knife into his heart w T hen 
Raleigh rebuked him for his ill- 
success. When Raleigh returned to 
England with a remnant of his 
forces and no gold, James, who 
wished to marry the Prince of 
Wales (afterwards Charles I) to a 
Spanish princess, determined to 
propitiate the Spanish court by 
executing Raleigh on his former 
sentence. After a trial before a 
commission of the Privy Council 
the doom of death was pronounced 
against him, and he was executed 
on zQth Oct., 1618. Nothing in his 
life became him like the leaving it; 
his death did much to destroy what 
little remained of James's popu- 

An early biographer says of 
Raleigh: " Authors are perplext 
under what Topick to place him, 
whether of Statesman, Seaman, 
Souldier, Chymist, or Chronologer; 
for in all these he did excel. He 
could make everything he read or 
VOL. ii. 

heard his own, and his own he 
could easily improve to the greatest 
Advantage. He seem'd to be born 
to that only which he went about, 
so Dexterous was he in all his 
Undertakings, in Court, in Camp, 
by Sea, by Land, with Sword, 
with Pen." His life was so full and 
adventurous that it Is to bewondered 
at that he found any time for study 
and literary work. As Dogberry 
said, "To be a well-favoured man 
is a gift of fortune; but to read 
and write comes by nature "; 
Raleigh must have been a pupil of 
Nature in his literary gifts. His 
principal works are: A Report of 
the Truth of the Fight about the 
Isles of Azores (1591), The Discovery 
of the Empyre of Guiana (1596), 
and his History of the World (1614). 
The last-named work was under- 
taken to please Henry, Prince of 
Wales, and was abandoned soon 
after the untimely death of the 
prince. It traces the history of the 
world from the creation to 130 B.C., 
when Macedonia became a Roman 
province. Some six hundred and 
sixty authors are cited in this work. 
According to Ben Jonson, " the 
best wits of England were employed 
for making of his Historic *'. Ben 
himself wrote the chapters on the 
Punic War; Robert Burhill assisted 
with the Greek and Hebrew, and 
John Hoskins revised the book. 
But the scheme of the book was 
Raleigh's; it was grandly planned 
and grandly executed, and at times 
rises to rare heights of eloquence. 
It is, of course, not written criti- 
cally; in those days history was a 
Muse, not a branch of science. 
Raleigh's short poems, some thirty 
in number, are admirable; the 
fragment which we possess of his 
long poem Cynthia, the Lady of the 



Sea docs 
loss of 


Iocs not make us regret the M. Walclman, Sir Waller Rakwk 
f the bulk of tliis poem. Sir Sidney Lee, Crcat Englishmen 
. Stcbbing, Kir Waller Raleigh; of the Sixteenth Cenlury; T? Brush- 
Sir E. Gosse, Raleigh; Sir Rennell iicld, Bibliography of Sir Walter 
Rodd, Sir Walter Raleigh; E, Raleigh; 1VI. A." S. llumc, Sir 
Edwards, Life of Sir Walter Raleigh,; Waller Rahigh.\ 

Verses Found in His Bible in the 

Gate-house at Westminster 

Even such is time, that takes in trust: 
Qur youth, our joys, our all we have, 

And pays us but with earth and dust; 
Who, in the dark and silent grave, 

When we have wandered all our ways, 

Shuts up the story of our days; 

But from this earth, this grave, this dust, 

My Gocl shall raise me up, I trust! 

From the "History of the World" 

By this which we have already set clown, is seen the beginning and end 
of the three first Monarchies of the World; whereof the Founders and 
Erectors thought that they could never have ended. That of Rome which 
made the fourth, was also at this time almost at the highest. We have 
left it flourishing in the middle of the Field; having rooted up or cut 
down, all that kept it from the Eyes and Admiration of the World. But 
after some continuance, it shall begin to lose the Beauty it had; the storms 
of Ambition shall beat her great Boughs and Branches one against another; 
her Leaves shall fall off; her Limbs wither, and a Rubble of Barbarous 
Nations enter the Field, and cut her clown. 

Now these great Kings, and Conquering Nations, have been the 
Subject of those Ancient Histories, which have been preserved, and yet 
remain among us; and withal of so many Tragical Poets as in the Persons 
of powerful Princes, and other Mighty Men have complained against 
Infidelity, Time, Destiny; and most of all against the Variable Success 
of Worldly things, and Instability of Fortune, To these Undertakings, 
the greatest Lords of the World have been stirred up, rather by the de- 
sire of Fame, which ploweth up the Air, and sowctli in the Wind; than 
by the affection of bearing Rule, which draweth after it so much Vexation, 
and so many Cares. And that this is true, the good Advice of Cineas to 
Pyrrhus proves. And certainly, as Fame hath often been dangerous to 


the Living, so is it to the Dead of no use at all; because separate from 
Knowledge. Which were it otherwise, and the extream ill Bargain of buy- 
ing this lasting Discourse, understood by them which are dissolved; they 
themselves would then rather have wished, to have stoln out of the World 
without noise; than to be put in mind, that they have purchased the 
report of their Actions in the World, by Rapine, Oppression and Cruelty, 
by giving in Spoil the Innocent and Labouring Soul to the Idle and Inso- 
lent, and by having emptied the Cities of the World of their Ancient In- 
habitants, and filled them again with so many and so variable sorts of 

Since the fall of the Roman Empire, (omitting that of the Germans, 
which had neither greatness nor continuance) there hath been no State 
fearful in the East, but that of the Turk; nor in the West any Prince that 
hath spred his Wings far over his Nest, but the Spaniard; who since the 
time that Ferdinand expelled the Moors out of Granado, have made 
many attempts to make themselves Masters of all Europe. And it is true, 
that by the Treasures of both Indies, and by the many Kingdoms which 
they possess in Europe, they are at this day the most powerful. But as 
the Turk is now counterpoised by the Persian, so instead of so many 
Millions as have been spent by the English, French, and Netherlands in 
a Defensive War, and in Diversions against them, it is easie to demon- 
strate, that with the charge of two hundred thousand Pound, continued 
but for two years or three at the most, they may not only be perswaded 
to live in Peace, but all their swelling and overflowing Streams may be 
brought back into their natural Channels and old Banks. These two 
Nations, I say, are at this day the most eminent and to be regarded; the 
one seeking to root out the Christian Religion altogether, the other the 
Truth and Sincere Profession thereof; the one to joyn all Europe to Asia, 
the other the rest of all Europe to Spain. 

For the rest, if we seek a reason of the Succession and continuance 
of this boundless Ambition in Mortal Men, we may add to that which 
hath been already said; That the Kings and Princes of the World have 
always laid before them, the Actions, but not the Ends, of those great 
Ones which preceded them. They are always transported with the Glory 
of the one, but they never mind the Misery of the other, till they find 
the Experience in themselves. They neglect the Advice of God, while 
they enjoy Life, or hope it; but they follow the Counsel of Death, upon 
his first approach. It is he that puts into Man all the Wisdom of the 
World, without speaking a Word; which God with all the Words of his 
Law, Promises or Threats, doth not infuse. Death, which hateth and 
destroyeth Man, is believed; God, which hath made him and loves him 
is always deferred. I have considered (saith Solomon) all the Works that 
are under the Sun, and behold, all is vanity and vexation of Spirit: but 
who believes it, till Death tells it us. It was Death, which opening the 



Conscience of Charles the Fifth, made him cnjoyn his Son Philip to re- 
store Navarre; and King Francis the First of France, to command that 
Justice should be done upon the Murderers of the Protestants in Merindol 
and Cabrieres, which till then he neglected. It is therefore Death alone 
that can suddenly make Man to know himself, lie tells the Proud and 
Insolent, that they are but Abjects, and humbles them at the instant- 
makes them crie, complain, and repent; Yea, even to hate their forepassed 
Happiness. He takes the account of the Rich, and proves him a Begger; 
a naked Begger, which hath interest in nothing, but in the Gravel that 
fills his Mouth. lie holds a Glass before the Eyes of the most Beautiful, 
and makes them see therein, their Deformity and Rottenness; and they 
acknowledge it. 

Eloquent, Just and Mighty Death! whom none could advise, thou 
hast perswaded; what none hath dared, thou bast clone; and whom all 
the World hath flattered, thou only hast cast out; of the World and de- 
spised: thou hast drawn together all the far stretched Greatness, all the 
Pride, Cruelty, and Ambition of Man, and covered it all over with these 
two narrow Words, II ic jewel. 

Lastly, Whereas this Book, by the Title it hath, calls itself, The First 
Part of the General History of the World, implying a Second, and Third 
Volume; which I also intended, and have hewn out; besides many other 
Discouragements, perswading my Silence; it; hath pleased God to take 
that Glorious Prince out of the World, to whom they were directed; 
whose unspeakable and never enough lamented loss, bath taught me to 
say with Job, Versa est in Luc turn Cithara mea, Qrgamtm mcum in wcem 



THORNDEN was born on I3th Decem- 
ber, 1585. His father, Sir John 
Drummond, was laird of Haw- 
thornden, and gentleman-usher to 
King James, being knighted when 
James succeeded to the English 
crown. Drummond 's mother was 
Susannah Fowler, sister of William 
Fowler, who was secretary to 
Queen Anne, the queen-consort, 

and a sonneteer and translator of 
Petrarch, Drummond was edu- 
cated at the Edinburgh High, School 
and at Edinburgh University, which 
had been founded only three years 
before he was born, lie graduated 
M.A, in 1605. In the following 
year he went to the Continent to 
study law, remaining some time 
in London on his way. He attended 
law lectures at Bourgcs and Paris, 


but his real interests lay in art and 
literature. When his father died 
in 1610 and left him at the age of 
twenty-five laird of Hawthornden, 
he abandoned the law, which he 
had never taken very seriously, 
and devoted himself to a life of 
study. Like most poets of the 
time, he composed a lament upon 
the death of Prince Henry; it was 
entitled Tears on the Death of 
Moeliades, and was published in 
1613. Drummond became more 
and more of a recluse. In 1615 
a tragedy occurred which over- 
shadowed his life for many years. 
He fell in love with Mary Cunning- 
ham of Barns, and she died on the 
eve of their wedding. Drummond 
was prostrated with grief, and 
remained single for seventeen years. 
In 1616 he published a collection 
of poems, many of which were 
connected with his bereavement. 
In 1617 he wrote a poem entitled 
The River of Forth Feasting,, in 
order to celebrate James's visit to 
his northern kingdom. Late in 
the following year he met Ben 
Jonson, almost certainly for the 
first time, and entertained him for 
a fortnight or so at Hawthornden 
about Christmas-time. The notes 
which he took of Jonson's table- 
talk, traditionally but not very 
happily known as Conversations 
(non rixa est, ubi fu pulsas, ego 
vapulo tantuni), were not intended 
for publication, and were not in 
fact published until 1711, and 
then in a severely " edited " form. 
A more correct text, edited from 
a transcript of Drummond's MS. 
made by the antiquary Sir Robert 
Sibbald (1641-1722) about 1710, 
was published by David Laing in 
1842, and a fully annotated edition 
by Dr. R. F. Patterson appeared 

in 1923. An ill-advised attack on 
the authenticity of the Conversations 
was made by Mr. C. L. Stainer in 
1925; but Mr. Stainer did not 
prove any of his allegations, and 
his case was laughed out of court. 
In 1620 Drummond had a serious 
illness, and in 1623 he published 
a volume of melancholy verse, 
Flowei's of Zion y and a beautiful 
piece of reflective prose, A Cypress 
Grove , w r hich will bear comparison 
with Sir Thomas Browne. In 
1627 a pa-tent for various mechanical 
devices, mostly military appliances, 
including a kind of tank and a per- 
petual-motion machine, was granted 
to Drummond. In the same year 
he presented five hundred books 
to Edinburgh University. In 1632 
he married Elizabeth Logan, on 
account, it is said, of her resem- 
blance to his early love. He had a 
large family, and in 1638 repaired 
his house " ut honesto otio quies- 
ceret ", as the inscription says. He 
interested himself in genealogy, 
and was thus led on to study his- 
tory. As Bishop Sage says (1711), 
" Our Author had a particular 
Respect and Fondness for his 
Name, and this seems to have been 
one of the Reasons he had for 
writing his History, which also 
is pretty evident from his own 
Dedication of it to John Earl of 
Perth ". In that dedication he 
apologizes " that I, who the most 
part of my life have been writing 
about small things in verse, should 
adventure to write about so many 
great and weighty affairs in prose ". 
His History of the Lives and Reigns 
of the Five James's, Kings of Scot- 
land, from the Year 1423 to the 
year 1542 is well-written but is of 
small value to students of Scottish 
history. In the stirring events 


before and during the Civil War, 
Drummond, though an ardent 
Royalist, took little part. He circu- 
lated a tract called Irene in 1638, in 
which he urged upon all parties 
the need for moderation, and wrote 
many other political tracts of small 
literary value. The execution of 
King Charles is said to have 
hastened his end, and he died on 
4th December, 1649. 

Though a thorough-going and 
patriotic Scot, Drummond wrote 
his poems in the purest English, 
and was a pioneer in the use of the 
southern idiom among the literary 
circles of Edinburgh. His best 
work is to be found in his sonnets, 

in which he showed himself to be 
an admirer of Petrarch. Owing 
doubtless to the secluded life which 
he led, he was never abreast of the 
literary fashion of the moment, 
and was a Die-hard in literature as 
well as in politics. As his editors 
of 1711 say of him, "lie was . .'. 
a quaint and delicate Poet, and a 
Master and Jucl^e of all polite 
Learning. . . In a Word, we 
may justly say, he deserves a very 
Considerable Place among the Best 
and Learn'dest Men of his Age ". 
[L. K. Kastncr, The Poetical 
Works of Drummond of llatvthornden 
(S.T.S,); David Masson, Drum- 
mond of Hawthomdcn.} 

From "A Cypress Grove" 

But is this Life so great a Good, that the Loss of it should be so 
dear unto Man? If it be, the meanest Creatures of Nature thus are 
happy; for they live no less than he. If it be so great a Felicity, how 
is it esteemed of Man himself at so small a Rate, that for so poor Gains, 
nay one disgraceful Word, he will not stand to lose it? What' Excellency 
is there in it, for which he should desire it perpetual, and repine to be 
at Rest, and return to his old Grandmother Dust? Of what Moment are 
the Labours and Actions of it, that the Interruption and leaving off of 
them should be to him so distasteful, and with such grudging Lamen- 
tations received? 

Is not the Entering into Life, Weakness? the Continuing, Sorrow? 
In the one, he is exposed to all the Injuries of the Elements, and like 
a condemned Trespasser (as if it were a Fault to come to the Light) 
no sooner born than manacled and bound; in the other, he is restlessly, 
like a JBall, tossed in the Tennis-Court of this World, when he is in 
the brightest Meridian of his Glory, there ncedcth nothing to destroy 
him, but to let him fall his own Height; a Reflex of the Sun, a Blast of 
Wind, nay the Glance of an Eye, is sufficient to undo him: How can 
that be any great Matter, which so small Instruments and slender Actions 
are Masters of? 

His Body is but a Mass of discording Humours, composed and 
elemented by the conspiring Influences of superior Lights, which, tho' 
agreeing for a Trace of Time, yet can never be made uniform, and kept 
in a just Proportion. To what Sickness is it subject unto, beyond those 


of the other sensible Creatures; no Part of it being which is not parti- 
cularly infected and afflicted by some one, nay every Part with many; 
yea so many, that the Masters of that Art can scarce number or name 
them: So that the Life of divers of the meanest Creatures of Nature hath, 
with great Reason, by the most Wise, been preferred to the natural Life 
of Man: And we should rather wonder, how so frail a Matter should 
so long endure, than how so soon dissolve and decay. 

Are the Actions of most Part of Men, much differing from the exer- 
cise of the Spider; that pitcheth Toyls, and is Tapist, to prey on the 
smaller Creatures, and for the weaving of a scornful Web eviscerateth 
it self many Days, which when with much industry finished, a little 
Puff of Wind carieth away both the Work and the Worker? Or, are they 
not like the Plays of Children? Or (to hold them at their highest Rate) 
as is a May-Game, or, what is more earnest, some Study at Chesse? Every 
Day we rise and lie down, apparel and disapparel ourselves, weary our 
Bodies and refresh them, which is a Circle of idle Travels and Labours 
(like Penelope's Task) unprofitably renewed. Some Time we are in a 
Chase after a fading Beauty; now we seek to enlarge our Bounds, increase 
our Treasure, feeding poorly, to purchase what we must leave to those 
we never saw, or (happily) to a Fool, or a Prodigal Heir. Raised with 
the Wind of Ambition, we court that idle Name of Honour, not con- 
sidering how they, who are mounted aloft in the highest Ascendant of 
Earthly Glory, are but like tortured Ghosts, wandring with golden 
Fetters in glistering Prisons, having Fear and Danger their unseparable 
Executioners, in the midst of Multitudes rather guarded than regarded. 
They whom opaque Imaginations and inward Melancholy, have made 
weary of the World, though they have withdrawn themselves from the 
Course of vulgar Affairs, by vain Contemplations, and curious Searches, 
are more disquieted, and live a Life worse than others; their W r it being 
too sharp to give them a Taste of their present Infelicity, and to increase 
their Woes ; while they of a more shallow and simple Conceit, have Want 
of Knowledge and Ignorance of themselves, for a Remedy and Antidote 
against all the Calamities of Life. 


Sweet Rose, whence is this Hue 

Which does all Hues excel? 

Whence this most fragrant Smell? 

And whence this Form and gracing Grace in you? 

In flowry Paestum's Fields perhaps you grew, 

Or Hybla's Hills you bred, 

Or Odoriferous Enna's Plains you fed, 


Or Tmolua, or where Boar young Adon slew; 

Or hath the Queen of Love you dy'd of new 

In that dear Blood, which makes you look so red? 

No, none of those, hut cause more high you Mist; 

My Lady's Breast you bore, her Lips you lust. 

Flowers of Sion, 5 

Of this fair Volume which we World do Name 
If we the Sheets and Leaves could turn with care, 
Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame, 
We clear might read the Art and Wisdom rare, 
Find out his Power which wildest Pow'rs doth tame, 
His Providence extending every where, 
His Justice which proud Rebels doth not spare, 
In every Page, no, Period of the same. 
But silly we like foolish, Children rest, 
Well plcas'd with colour \l Velum, Leaves of Gold, 
Fair dangling Ribbands, leaving what is best, 
Oa the great Writer's Sense ne're taking hold; 
Or if by Chance we stay our Minds on ought, 
It is sonic Picture on the Margin wrought. 


My Thoughts hold mortal Strife, 

I do detest my Life, 

And with lamenting Cries 

Peace to my Soul to bring, 

Oft call that Prince, which here doth Monarchixe, 

But he grim grinning King, 

Who Cativcs scorns, and doth the Blest surprise, 
Late having deckt with Beauty's Rose his Tomb, 
Disdains to crop a Weed, and will not come, 


Night, clear Night, dark and gloomy Day! 
wofull Waking! 0" Soul-pleasing Sleep! 
sweet Conceits which in my Brains did creep ! 
Yet sowr Conceits which went so soon away. 


A Sleep I had more then poor Words can say, 
For clos'd in Arms (me thought) I did thee keep, 
A sorry Wretch plung'd in Misfortunes deep. 
Am I not wak'd? when Light doth Lies bewray. 
O that that Night had never still been black! 
O that that Day had never yet begun! 
And you mine Eyes would yet no Time saw Sun! 
To have your Sun in such a Zodiack: 

Lo, what is good of Life is but a Dream, 

When Sorrow is a never-ebbing Stream. 


GEORGE WITHER was born at Bent- 
worth, in Hampshire, in 1588. He 
was educated at Magdalen College, 
Oxford, where he did not graduate. 
In 1610 or thereabouts he settled 
in London to study law, and in 
1615 he became a member of 
Lincoln's Inn. His interests, how- 
ever, lay in literature rather than 
in law. He wrote, as so many of 
his contemporaries did, a lament 
on the death of Prince Henry; but 
his lament took the unusual form 
of a sonnet-sequence. His poem 
on the marriage of Princess Eliza- 
beth won him some favour at 
court, which stood him in good 
stead in some of the difficulties 
which he experienced later. His 
first satirical work, Abuses stript and 
zvhipty appeared in 1613; although 
its satire is general and, as satires 
go, mild, it caused his imprison- 
ment in the Marshalsea for several 
months. While he was in prison 
he wrote one of his best and most 
attractive poems, The Shepherd's 
Hunting , a collection of eclogues. 
Fidelia, a delightfully fresh and 

charming poem, appeared in 1617. 
The best known of Wither's poems, 
the famous Shall I, wasting in 
despair, appeared in a later edition 
of Fidelia. Wither's second attempt 
at satire, Wither's Motto,, Nee habeo, 
nee careOj nee euro, was no more 
successful than his first attempt, 
and caused its author's return to 
the Marshalsea in 1621. A love- 
poem, entitled Faire-Virtue, the 
Mistresse of PhiFArete, appeared 
in 1622. At this point Wither's 
career as a poet virtually ended. 
He lived for forty-five years longer, 
and acquired some notoriety as a 
Puritan, a soldier, and an indefa- 
tigable writer of pious or political 
productions both in prose and 
verse. It is not necessary to name 
all or even many of his later and 
less worthy writings. Halelujah 
(1641), a collection of pious verse, 
shows some of his old power. His 
Hymnes and Songs of the Church 
(1623) was ordered by letters patent 
to be inserted in every copy of the 
semi-official Psalm-book in meeter, 
but Wither derived no satisfaction 



and considerable trouble from this 
monopoly. Wither stated his case 
In an interesting enough prose tract, 
The Scholar's Purgatory (1624). 
Britain's Remembrancer (1628) is a 
long poem in eight cantos of much 
solemnity but little merit, A Col- 
lection of Emblems (1635) consisted of 
poems written to fit engravings, and 
so of small literary value. In 1639 
Wither served as captain of horse 
against the Scottish covenanters; 
but in 1642 he raised a troop of 
horse for the Parliament, and was 
appointed captain and commander 
of Farnham Castle. He was 
captured by the Royalists but 
released by the intervention of 
Sir John Denham, who said he 
wished to make sure, by the pre- 
servation of Wither's life, that he 
would not himself be the worst 
poet in England. Wither subse- 
quently became a major, but his 
military career was undistinguished. 
His writings rapidly increased in 
number and in worthlessness. He 
was appointed commissioner for 
the sale of the king's goods in 1653, 
and clerk in the statute office of 
the Court of Chancery in 1655, but 
he remained dissatisfied with his 
lot. After the Restoration he was 
imprisoned for more than a year, 
and continued his career as poetaster 
and pamphleteer both in prison 

and out of it. His long life came to 
an end in 1667. 

Wither (who was often called 
Withers) became almost proverbial, 
especially among cavalier poets, for 
being what Aristophanes calls <v a 
pourcr forth o f weak washy twaddle ' ' 
(Ky)owoxuT/)oA.?//)atQs). His detrac- 
tors forgot entirely what he 
himself chose to consider the sins 
and offences of his youth his 
light and graceful pastorals and 
his pleasing satires. Between his 
best and his worst work, as between 
the best and the worst work of 
Wordsworth, a great gulf is fixed, 
so that it is hard to recognize the 
dainty pastoral poet in the pious 
and prolix platitudinist. To per- 
petrate a pun which he himself 
sanctioned, age had the power to 
wither him. No other poet im- 
presses on us so strongly that 

Youth is hot and bold, age is weak 

and cold; 
Youth is wild and age is tame. 

The restoration of the name of 
Wither, to the roll of English poets 
was mainly due to the loving 
advocacy of Charles Lamb. 

[The Spenser Society's edition 
of Wither's works; F. Sidgwick, 
The Poetry of George Wither; E. 
Arbor, An English Garner.] 

The Lover's Resolution 

Shall I, wasting in despair, 
Die because a woman's fair? 
Or make pale my cheeks with care 
'Cause another's rosy are? 
Be she fairer than the day, 
Or the flowery meads in May, 
If she think not well of me, 
What care I how fair she be? 


Shall my silly heart be pined 
'Cause I see a woman kind? 
Or a well-disposed nature 
Joined with a lovely feature? 
Be she meeker, kinder, than 
Turtle-dove or pelican, 
If she be not so to me, 
What care I how kind she be? 

Shall a woman's virtues move 
Me to perish for her love? 
Or her well-deservings known 
Make me quite forget my own? 
Be she with that goodness blest 
Which may merit name of best, 
If she be not such to me, 
What care I how good she be? 

'Cause her fortune seems too high, 
Shall I play the fool and die? 
She that bears a noble mind, 
If not outward helps she find, 
Thinks what with them he would do 
Who without them dares her woo ; 
And unless that mind I see, 
What care I how great she be? 

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 
I will ne'er the more despair; 
If she love me, this believe, 
I will die ere she shall grieve; 
If she slight me when I woo, 
I can scorn and let her go ; 
For if she be not for me, 
What care I for whom she be? 




1 1643 ) 

ever performed, and it was not 
printed until 1773. The second 
half of Browne's life did not 
resemble Withers somewhat tur- 
bulent later career, for he led a life 
of calm placidity; but his literary 
output seems to have ceased. In 
1624 he became tutor to the future 
Earl of Carnarvon, who was killed 
at Newbury. lie took his M.A. at 
Oxford in that year, lie somehow 
or other, possibly by means of a 
judicious marriage, was able to 
purchase an estate near Dorking. 
lie died in 1643, or possibly in 

Browne was a devoted admirer 
and follower of Sidney and of 
Spenser, but especially of Spenser. 
His Brilannitfs Paslorals is enter- 
taining and pleasing if read in the 
right spirit. If it is read for the 
story, the puzzled reader will soon 
throw it aside in disgust, when he 
finds himself lost in a maxe of 
unintelligible allegory. The poem 
should be read for its beautiful 
descriptive passages, especially the 
descriptions of "country life and 
scenery. Many of these passages 
take the form of similes. They will 
repay constant: reading, and the 
persevering reader, using them as 
stepping-stones, may manage to 
wade through the whole poem 
with considerable pleasure. The 
famous epitaph on the Countess of 
Pembroke, Underneath this sable 
hearse, is sometimes attributed to 
Browne, sometimes to Jonson. The 
evidence cither way is not decisive, 
and unless more is discovered, the 
problem of authorship must be 

WILLIAM BROWNE, usually called 
" of Tavistock " for purposes of 
identification, was born at Tavistock 
in 1591, He was educated at Tavi- 
stock Grammar School and at 
Exeter College, Oxford, the west- 
country college. His career in 
several respects resembles that of 
Wither, who was his friend. lie 
did not graduate; lie entered at 
Clifford's Inn and migrated to the 
Inner Temple, and must have 
served an apprenticeship to the 
law, probably without enthusiasm. 
He also began his career as poet 
by writing an elegy on Prince 
Henry. The first book of his best 
work, Britannia 9 s Pastorals,, ap- 
peared in 1613, when he was only 
twenty-two years of age. The 
second book appeared in 1616; 
but the third, which lacks the 
finishing touches, was not printed 
until 1852, more than two hundred 
years after its author's death. In 
1614 appeared a small volume 
entitled The Shepherd's Pfpe> con- 
taining seven eclogues, the number 
being fixed by the number of reeds 
in the syrinx or Pan's pipe. Browne 
was a keen antiquarian, and in- 
corporated in his first eclogue a 
passage of Occleve (q.v.), whose 
name and work had fallen into 
almost complete oblivion. Besides 
Browne's seven eclogues, this little 
volume contains eclogues by Chris- 
topher Brooke, Wither, and Davies 
of Hereford. Browne wrote in 
1615 The Inner Temple Masque, 
dealing with the story of Ulysses 
and Circe. It is a beautiful masque, 
but it is uncertain whether it was 


ded as insoluble. Browne has Works of William Browne; Sir 

r s been loved by other poets; Edmund Gosse, The Jacobean Poets] 

n imitated him, and Keats, F. W. Moorman, William Brownp, 

in some respects resembled his Britannia's Pastorals; Sir A. 

was an ardent admirer. T. Quiller-Couch, Adventures in 

or don Goodwin, The Poetical Criticism^ 

Britannia's Pastorals 

Book II, Song i 

Glide soft, ye silver floods, 
And every spring: 
Within the shady woods 
Let no bird sing! 
Nor from the grove a turtle-dove 
Be seen to couple with her love; 
But silence on each dale and mountain dwell, 
Whilst Willy bids his friend and joy farewell. 

But (of great Thetis* train) 
Ye mermaids fair, 
That on the shores do plain 
Your sea-green hair, 
As ye in trammels knit your locks, 
Weep ye; and so enforce the rocks 
In heavy murmurs through the broad shores tell 
How Willy bade his friend and joy farewell. 

Cease, cease, ye murd'ring winds, 
To move a wave; 
But if with troubled minds 
You seek his grave; 
Know 'tis as various as yourselves, 
Now in the deep, then on the shelves, 
His coffin toss'd by fish and surges fell, 
Whilst Willy weeps and bids all joy farewell. 

Had he Arion-like 

Been judged to drown, 

He on his lute could strike 

So rare a sowne, 

A thousand dolphins would have come 
And jointly strive to bring him home. 


But he on shipboard died, by sickness fell, 
Since when his Willy bade all joy farewell. 

Great Neptune, hear a swain! 
His coffin take, 
And \vitli a golden chain 
For pity make 

It fast unto a rock near land! 
Where cv'ry calmy morn I'll stand, 
And ere one sheep out of my fold I toll, 
Sad Willy's pipe shall bid his friend fore well. 

Ah heavy shepherd, whosoe'er thou be, 

Quoth fair Marina, I do pity thee: 

For who by death is in a true friend cross 7 cl, 

Till he be earth, he half himself hath lost. 

More happy deem I thec, lamented swain, 

Whose body lies among the scaly train, 

Since 1 shall never think that thou canst die, 

Whilst Willy lives, or any poetry: 

For well it seems in versing he hath skill, 

And though he, aided from the sacred hill, 

To thcc \vith him no equal life can give, 

Yet by his pen thou may 'at for ever live. 

With this a beam of sudden brightness Hies 

Upon her face, so dazzling her clear eyes, 

That neither flower nor grass which by her grew 

She could discern cloth'd in their perfect hue. 

For as a wag, to sport with such as pass, 

Taking the sunbeams in a looking-glass, 

Conveys the rays into the eyes of one 

Who, blinded, either stumbles at a stone, 

Or as he dazzled walks the peopled streets, 

Is ready justling every man he meets: 

So then Apollo did in glory cast 

His bright beams on a rock with gold cnchas'd, 

And thence the swift reflection of their light 

Blinded those eyes, the chief est stars of night, 

When straight a thick-swoll'n cloucl (as if it sought 

In beauty's mind to have a thankful thought) 

Inveil'd the lustre of great Titan's car, 

And she beheld from whence she sat, not far, 

Cut on a high-brow'd rock, inlaid with gold, 

This epitaph, and read it, thus enroll'd: 



In depth of waves long hath Alexis slept, 

So choicest jewels are the closest kept; 

Whose death the land had seen, but it appears 

To countervail his loss men wanted tears. 

So here he lies, whose dirge each mermaid sings, 

For whom the clouds weep rain, the Earth her springs. 

(Lines 242-318.) 



Sm HENRY WOTTON was born at 
Boughton Hall, Kent, in 1568. He 
was educated at Winchester and 
at New College, Oxford, but he 
subsequently migrated to Queen's 
College, whence he graduated B.A. 
in 1588. He then devoted some 
seven years to foreign travel, and 
returned in 1595, a scholar and a 
man of the world in the best sense 
of the term. He became a kind of 
secret agent to the Earl of Essex, 
and when Essex lost the queen's 
favour, Wotton thought it prudent 
to leave England and settle in 
Venice. Though he was not impli- 
cated in Essex's plot, he did not 
return to England until after the 
death of the queen. While at 
Venice he wrote his important 
prose work, The State of Christen- 
dom, which, however, was not 
published until 1657. In 1602 
Ferdinand the Great, Duke of 
Tuscany, intercepted certain letters 
which discovered a design to kill 
James VI of Scotland, and sent 
Wotton in the disguise of an Italian 
to Scotland, with letters and Italian 
antidotes against poison. He stayed 
three months in Scotland, and was 
well received by the king, who 
in gratitude, when he became 

King of England, knighted Wotton 
and appointed him ambassador to 
Venice. Wotton held this post for 
almost twenty years (not consecu- 
tive), returning home finally in 
1624. He upset and almost ruined 
his career by an inopportune joke 
by defining an ambassador as 
" an honest man, sent to lie abroad 
for the good of his country ". This 
epigram ruined his chance of being 
appointed secretary to the king 
after the death of Lord Salisbury. 
When he finally left Venice in 1624, 
he was without money or the means 
of earning it. He published a small 
and unimportant book on archi- 
tecture, a paraphrase of Vitruvius. 
On 26th July, 1624, he was appointed 
Provost of Eton, and held this post 
until his death in 1639. The last 
years of his life were tranquil, and 
he spent much of his leisure fish- 
ing with his friend Izaak Walton. 
He started several literary projects 
which he did not carry out a 
History of England, a Life of Luther ^ 
and a Life of Donne. He wrote letters 
of much interest to various corre- 
spondents. The main collection of 
his works, Reliquiae Wottonianae, 
preceded by Walton's memoir, 
appeared posthumously in 1651. 



Wolton had the good fortune to 
write one exquisite and one first- 
rate poem, and to have his life 
written by Walton. Walton's 
tribute was written not only in the 
spirit of friendship, but in the 
spirit of brotherly love which one 
lishermim feels for another. As u 
man of letters Wotton was some- 
thing of an amateur, though lie was 

a man of light and leading in his 
own generation. But he will always 
be remembered as the author of 
You meaner beau lies of Ihc night and 
as one of the most eminent English 
" biograpbees ". 

[Ixauk Walton, Lives] L. P. 
Smith, Life, and Lcllm of Sir Henry 
Wot fan] Sir A. W. \Vard, Sir Henry 
Wo I Ion, a tliugru[>hical Sketch.] 

On his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia 

You meaner beauties of the night, 

That poorly satisfy our eyes 
More by your number than your light, 

You common, people of the skies; 

What are you when the moon shall rise? 

You curious chanters of the wood, 
That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, 

Thinking 1 your passions understood 

By your weak accents; \vluit\s your praise, 
When Philomel, her voice shall raise? 

Yon violets that first appear, 
By your pure purple mantles known 

Like the proud virgins of the year, 
As if the spring were all your own; 
What are you when the rose is blown? 

So, when my mistress shall be seen, 

In form and beauty of her mind, 
By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, 

Tell me if she were not designed 

The eclipse and glory of her kind? 

The Character of a Happy Life 

iA, Jv *f 

How happy is he born and taught 

That scrveth not another's will; 
Whose armour is his honest thought, 

And simple truth his utmost skill ; 


Whose passions not his masters are ; 

Whose soul is still prepared for death, 
Untied unto the world by care 

Of public fame or private breath; 

Who envies none that chance doth raise, 
Nor vice ; who never understood 

How deepest wounds are given by praise; 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good; 

Who hath his life from rumours freed ; 

W 7 hose conscience is his strong retreat; 
Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 

Nor ruin make oppressors great; 

Who God doth late and early pray 
More of his grace than gifts to lend; 

And entertains the harmless day 
With a religious book or friend. 

This man is freed from senile bands 
Of hope to rise or fear to fall: 

Lord of himself, though not of lands, 
And, having nothing, yet hath all. 

Upon the Death of Sir Albertus Morton's Wife 

He first deceased; she for a little tried 
To live without him, liked it not, and died. 



RICHARD CORBET was the son of a 
gardener of Ewell, in Surrey, and 
was born in 1582. He was educated 
at Westminster School, Broadgates 
Hall (Pembroke College), Oxford, 
and Christ Church. He graduated 
BA. in 1602, M.A. in 1605, and 
VOL. ii. 

BD. in 1617. He had a distin- 
guished career as don and church- 
man, becoming Dean of Christ 
Church in 1620, Bishop of Oxford 
in 1624, and Bishop of Norwich in 
1632. He was an intimate friend of 
Ben Jonson, for whom he probably 




obtained the honorary degree of 
M.A. at Oxford, and he was also, 
as Ben's friends were wont to be, 
a lover of conviviality and a hater 
of Puritanism. Corbet did not 
allow his high spiritual ollicc to 
Interfere unduly with his love of 
wine and practical joking, and 
many legends gathered round him. 
He was in the habit of visiting the 
wine-cellar with his chaplain, doff- 
ing his episcopal vestments, and 
abandoning himself to enjoyment 
of the generous liquor. On one 
occasion, when lie was a Doctor of 
Divinity, he met at Abingdon 
Cross a ballad-vender who could 
not sell his wares; so he borrowed 
the man's leather jerkin and sang 

the ballads so lustily that the stock 
was soon disposed of. His hand- 
some appearance and well-toned 
voice doubtless helped him in this 

Corbet's poems (published 1647) 
arc not: great literature, but are 
most pleasant to read, reflecting as 
they do his good-humoured per- 
sonality. Fairies Farewell is per- 
haps the best known of them; but 
Itcr liowak and the Journey to 
France are both excellent poems 
of their kind. The lines to his 
three-year-old son are most touch- 
ing; it is melancholy to have to 
record that that son was a failure 
in life, and sponged upon his rich 

Fairies Farewell 

Farewell, rewards and fairies! 

Good housewives now may say, 
For now foul sluts in dairies 

Do fare as well as they. 
And though they sweep their hearths no less 

Than maids were wont to do, 
Yet who of late, for cleanliness, 

Finds sixpence in her shoe? 

Lament, lament, old abbeys, 

The fairies* lost command! 
They did but change priests' babies, 

But some have changed your land; 
And all your children sprung from thence, 

Are now grown Puritancs; 
Who live as changelings ever since, 

For love of your dcmains. 

At morning and at evening both 

You merry were and glad; 
So little care of sleep or sloth 

These pretty ladies had; 


When Tom came home from labour, 

Or Ciss to milking rose, 
Then merrily merrily went their tabour 

And nimbly went their toes. 

Witness those rings and roundelays 

Of theirs, which yet remain, 
Were footed in Queen Mary's days 

On many a grassy plain; 
But since of late, Elizabeth, 

And later, Janies came in, 
They never danced on any heath 

As when the time hath been. 

By w T hich we note the fairies 

Were of the old profession; 
Their songs w r ere Ave -Maries, 

Their dances were procession. 
But now, alas! they all are dead, 

Or gone beyond the seas; 
Or farther for religion fled; 

Or else they take their ease. 

A tell-tale in their company 

They never could endure; 
And whoso kept not secretly 

Their mirth, was punished sure; 
It was a just and Christian deed 

To pinch such black and blue: 
Oh, how the Commonwealth doth need 

Such justices as you! 






JOHN DONNE was bom in 1573, 
His name was pronounced as if 
spelt " Dunn ", and was humor- 
ously latinixcd as " Johannes 
Factus ". His father was an iron- 
monger of Welsh extraction, and 
his mother was a daughter of John 
Heywood (q.v.) the epigrammatist, 
and a grand-niece of Sir Thomas 
More. Donne's mother, therefore, 
was a Roman Catholic, and Donne 
was educated in the principles of 
the old faith. lie was entered at 
Hart Hall, Oxford, at the early 
age of eleven, probably to avoid 
subscribing the oath of supremacy, 
He did not graduate, nor did he 
take a degree at Cambridge, whither 
he migrated to complete his studies. 
In 1593 he was entered at Lincoln's 
Inn, though he appears to have 
been a member of Thavies Inn 
previously. His legal studies were 
probably interrupted by the com* 
position of much of his poetry, as 
Ben Jonson affirmed that Donne 
had " written all his best; pieces 
ere he was 25 years old ". In 1596 
he served as a volunteer in the 
expedition to Cadiz, and in the 
next year he went to the Azores, 
being accompanied on both occa- 
sions by his friend Sir Henry 
Wotton (q.v.). On the second of 
these voyages they made friends 
with Sir Thomas Egerton the 
younger, who secured Donne's 
appointment as private secretary 
to his father, Sir Thomas Egerton 
the elder (afterwards Lord "Ellcs- 
mere and Viscount Brackley), who 
had been appointed Lord Keeper 
in 1596. A busy and lucrative 

career seemed to be opening for 
Donne, but unfortunately he spoilt 
his chances by clandestinely marry- 
ing Anne More, his master's niece 
by marriage. For this offence he 
was dismissed from his post and 
imprisoned; for many years he 
and his wife lived in, considerable 
poverty, and he had no very definite 
means of livelihood. He lived for 
a^ time with his wife's cousin, 
Francis "Wooley, and for a time 
with Sir Robert Drury, whose 
favour he gained by writing two 
extravagantly adulatory poems on 
the death of his only daughter. 
These were the first of Donne's 
poems to be printed in, his life- 
time, nor were many of his writings 
published until two years after his 
death, though most of his poems 
circulated .freely in manuscript, 
His satires and elegies were ex- 
tremely popular. I te assisted 
Thomas Morton, afterwards Bishop 
of Durham, to rout; the Jesuits in 
argument, and. wrote a curious 
prose tract named Biallianatos in 
defence of suicide, and another 
polemical work, by royal command, 
entitled Pseudo-Martyr. In 1615 
Donne at last; yielded to the king's 
reiterated wish that he should be- 
come a clergyman. lie was held 
back from taking orders not only 
by scruples about his unworthiness, 
but by hopes that some lucrative 
lay position might still be found 
for him. As soon as he complied 
with the lung's desire, his pecu- 
niary dif Realties ceased. In 1616 
he became divinity reader at Lin- 
coln's Inn, and in 1621 he was 


From the painting by (or after) Isaac Oliver in the National 

Portrait Gallery 




appointed Dean of St. Paul's. He 
threw himself with characteristic 
fervour into his new career, and 
he was marked down for a bishopric 
when his fatal illness began its 
course. His sermons were famous, 
and w T e do not possess any more 
splendid examples of pulpit elo- 
quence. They are no mere draw- 
ing out of the staple of verbosity; 
the magnificence of the language 
is equalled by the loftiness of the 

Donne's writings have suffered 
somewhat from the gap of over 
thirty years which lay between the 
composition and the publication 
of some of them. Many poems by 
other hands were fathered on him, 
and his genuine poems are fre- 
quently corrupted. But when all 
possible allowance is made for 
textual errors, his style still remains 
tortured and crabbed, and his 
metre is frequently unmelodious. 
His lines on the death of Prince 
Henry were written, Jonson tells 
us, to match Sir Edward Herbert in 
obscureness. Sometimes he can 
write as clearly and tersely as any 
of his contemporaries; but often 
he is laboured and difficult. He 
was the founder and leader of that 
school of poetry which Dr. Johnson 
not very aptly named " metaphy- 
sical ". The absurdities of this 
school are quite as great in their 
own way as those of the Euphuists; 
similia dissimilibus comparantur, and 
all bounds of common sense are 
passed in a desperate attempt to 
be clever at all costs. The pecu- 
liarities of this school are parti- 
cularly displeasing to those who 
admire the austere self-restraint 
of the great Greek poets. Donne's 
influence on English poetry was 
almost wholly maleficent, though 

some of his poems are beyond 
criticism. His Satires, written 
between 1593 and 1597, are rough 
and harsh, and follow the tradition 
of Persius rather than that of 
Horace. Pope " versified " two of 
these satires, to make them more 
in accordance with eighteenth -cen- 
tury taste. His Songs are mostly 
real songs, intended to be set to 
music and sung. His Elegies are 
more typical of his strange and 
contradictory genius. The Progress 
of the Soul, Poema Satyricon is an 
incomplete, sombre, and somewhat 
disgusting poem on metempsy- 
chosis. The Storm and The Calm 
are among the best of Donne's 
Letters, both being reminiscences 
of his expeditions in 1596 and 
1597. His sacred poems are of 
great excellence. 

Jonson's opinions of Donne are 
interesting. He considered him 
the first poet in the world in some 
things; but thought that "Done, 
for not keeping of accent, deserved 
hanging", and that " Done himself, 
for not being understood, would 
perish ". There is much truth in 
these seemingly contradictory re- 
marks. Donne's poems too often 
" run like a brewer's cart upon the 
stones, quae per salebras, altaque 
saxa cadunt ' ". His thought, how- 
ever, is often great and not merely 
quaint, and shines through the 
obscurity of his style. Professor 
Saintsbury has said somewhere 
that every reader of Donne is 
" either an adept or an outsider 
born"; it is not possible for a 
member of the latter class to write so 
as to satisfy a member of the former. 
[Walton's masterly life of Donne 
is a great but not entirely reliable 
biography. Walton knew Dr. 
Donne but not Jack Donne (the 


mtithcsis of persons " is Donne's Donne; K, M. Simpson, A Stitdv 

n). II. J. C. Gricrson, The of Donntfs Prose Works; G, L 

ems of John Donne; Sir Edmund Keyues, The tiiblhgraphy of John 

)ssc, Life and Letters of Joint Donnc*\ 

The Sun Rising 

Busy old fool, unruly Sun, 
Why dost thou thus, 

Through windows, and through curtains call on us? 
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? 
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide 
Late school boys, and sour prentices, 
Go tell Court-huntsmen, that the King will ride, 
Call country ants to harvest offices; 
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, 
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time. 

Thy beams, ao reverend, and strong 

Why shouldst thou think? 
I could eclipse and cloud them with, a wink, 
But that I would not lose her sight so long: 

If her eyes have not blinded thine, 

Look, and to-morrow late, tell me, 
Whether both th> Inclias of spice and mine 
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me. 
Ask for those Kings whom thou saw 'at yesterday, 
And thou shalt hear, All here In one bed lay. 

She is all States, and all Princes, T, 

Nothing else is. 

Princes do but play us; compared to this, 
All honour's mimic; All wealth alchemy. 

Thou, sun, art half as happy as \ve, 

In that the world's contracted thus; 
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be 
To warm the world, that's done In wanning us. 
Shine here to us, and thou art every where; 
This bed thy centre Is, these walls, thy sphere. 



Go, and catch a falling star, 

Get with child a mandrake root. 
Tell me, where all past years are, 

Or who cleft the Devil's foot, 
Teach me to hear Mermaids singing, 
Or to keep off envy's stinging, 
And find 
What wind 
Serves to advance an honest mind . 

If thou beest borne to strange sights, 

Things invisible to see, 
Ride ten thousand days and nights, 
Till age snow white hairs on thee, 
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me 
All strange wonders that befell thee, 
And swear 
No w r here 
Lives a w T oman true, and fair. 

If thou findst one, let me know, 
Such a Pilgrimage were sweet; 
Yet do not, I would not go, 

Though at next door we might meet, 
Though she were true, when you met her, 
And last, till you write your letter, 
Yet she 
False, ere I come, to two, or three. 

The Undertaking 

I have done one braver thing 

Than all the Worthies did, 
And yet a braver thence doth spring, 

Which is, to keep that hid. 

It were but madness now t' impart 

The skill of specular stone, 
When he which can have learn'd the art 

To cut it, can find none. 


So, if I now should utter this, 
Others (because no more 

Such stuff to work upon, there is,) 
Would love but as before. 

But he who loveliness within 
Hath found, all outward loathes, 

For he who colour loves, and skin, 
Loves but their oldest clothes. 

If, as I have, you also do 
Vertue attir'd in woman see, 

And dare love that, and say so too, 
And forget the lie and She; 

And if this love, though placed so, 
From profane men you hide, 

Which will no faith on this bestow, 
Or, if they do, deride: 

Then you have done a braver thing 
Than all the Worthies did; 

And a braver thence will spring, 
Which is, to keep that hid. 

The Canonization 

For Goclsalce hold your tongue, and let me love, 

Or chide my palsy, or my gout, 
My five grey hairs, or ruin'cl fortune flout, 
With wealth your state, your mind with Arts improve, 
Take you a course, get you a place, 
Observe his honour, or his grace, 
Or the King's real, or his stamped face 
Contemplate, what you will, approve, 
So you will let me love. 

Alas, alas, who's injur'd by my love? 

What merchants' ships nave my sighs drown 'd? 
Who says my tears have overflow *d his ground? 
When did my colds a forward spring remove? 
When did the heats which my veins fill 
Add one more to the plaguy Bill? 


Soldiers find wars, and Lawyers find out still 
Litigious men, which quarrels move, 
Though she and I do love. 

Call us what you will, we are made such "by love; 

Call her one, me another fly, 
We are Tapers too, and at our own cost die, 
And we in us find th' Eagle and the Dove. 
The Phoenix riddle hath more wit 
By us, \ve two being one, are it. 
So to one neutral thing both sexes fit, 
We die and rise the same, and prove 
Mysterious by this love. 

We can die by it, if not live by love, 
And if unfit for tombs and hearse 
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse; 
And if no piece of Chronicle we prove, 
We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms; 
As well a well-wrought urn becomes 
'The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs, 
And by these hymns, all shall approve 
Us canonized for Love: 

And thus invoke us; You whom reverend love 

Made one another's hermitage; 
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage; 
Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove 
Into the glasses of your eyes 
(So made such mirrors, and such spies, 
That they did all to you epitomize,) 

Countries, Towns, Courts: Beg from above 
A pattern of your love! 


Sweetest love, I do not go, 

For weariness of thee, 
Nor in hope the world can show 

A fitter Love for me; 

But since that I 
Must die at last, 'tis best, 
To use myself in jest 

Thus by feign 'd deaths to die; 


Yesternight the Sun went hence, 

And yet Is here to-day, 
lie hath no desire nor sense, 

Nor half so short a way: 

Then fear not me, 
But believe that I shall make 
Speedier journeys, since I take 

More wings and spurs than he. 

how feeble is man's power, 

That if good fortune fall, 
Cannot add another hour, 

Nor a lost hour recall! 

But come bad chance, 
And we join to it our strength, 
And we teach it art and length, 

Itself o'er us to advance. 

When ihou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind, 

But sigh'st my soul away, 
When thou weep 'at, unkindly kind, 

My life's blood doth decay. 

It cannot be 

That thou lov'st me, as thou say'st, 
If in thine my life thou waste, 

Thou art the best of me. 

Let not thy divining heart 

Forethink me any ill, 
Destiny may take thy part, 

And may thy fears fulfil; 

But think that we 
Are but turn'd aside to sleep; 
They who one another keep 

Alive, ne'er parted be. 

From the cc Sermons " 


not man die even in his birth? The breaking of prison is death, 
t is our birth, but a breaking of prison? As soon as we were 
by God, our very apparel was an Emblem of death. In the 
dead beasts, he covered the skins of dying men, As soon as 
us on work, our very occupation was an Emblem of death; It 


was to dig the earth; not to dig pitfalls for other men, but graves for 
ourselves. Hath any man here forgot to-day, that yesterday is dead? 
And the Bell tolls for to-day, and will ring out anon; and for as much 
of every one of us, as appertains to this day. Quotidie morlmur, et tainen 
nos esse aeternos putamus, says S. Hierome] We die every day, and we 
die all the day long; and because we are not absolutely dead, we call 
that an eternity, an eternity of dying: And is there comfort in that state? 
why, that is the state of hell itself, Eternal dying, and not dead, 

But for this there is enough said, by the Moral man; (that we may 
respite divine proofs, for divine points anon, for our several Resur- 
rections) for this death is merely natural, and it is enough that the moral 
man says, Mors lex, tributum, officium mortaliuni. First it is lex, you 
were born under that law, upon that condition to die: so it is a rebellious 
thing not to be content to die, it opposes the Law. Then it is Tributum, 
an imposition which nature the Queen of this world lays upon us, and 
which she will take, when and where she list; here a young man, there 
an old man, here a happy, there a miserable man; And so it is a seditious 
thing not to be content to die, it opposes the prerogative. And lastly, 
it is Officium, men are to have their turns, to take their time, and then 
to give way by death to successors; and so it is Incivile, inofficiosum, 
not to be content to die, it opposes the frame and form of government. 
It comes equally to us all, and makes us all equal when it comes. The 
ashes of an Oak in the Chimney, are no Epitaph of that Oak, to tell 
me how high or how large that was; It tells me not what flocks it sheltered 
while it stood, nor what men it hurt when it fell. The dust of great 
persons' graves is speechless too, it says nothing, it distinguishes nothing: 
As soon the dust of a wretch whom thou wouldest not, as of a Prince 
whom thou couldest not look upon, will trouble thine eyes, if the wind 
blow it thither; and when a whirlwind hath blown the dust of the Church- 
yard into the Church, and the man sweeps out the dust of the Church 
into the Churchyard, who will undertake to sift those dusts again, and to 
pronounce, This is the Patrician, this is the noble Hour, and this the 
yeomanly, this the Plebeian bran. 

Donne's Last Sermon 

In all our periods and transitions in this life, are so many passages 
from death to death; our very birth and entrance into this life, is exitus 
a morte, an issue from death, for in our mother's womb we are dead so, 
as that we do not know we live, not as much as we do in our sleep, neither 
is there any grave so close, or so putrid a prison, as the womb would be 
unto us, if we stayed in it beyond our time, or died there before our time. 
In the grave the worms do not kill us, we breed and feed, and then kill 
those worms, which we ourselves produced. In the womb the dead child 


kills the Mother that: conceived it, and is n murderer, uny a parricide 
even after it is dead. And, if we be not dead so in the womb, so as that 
being dead we kill her that gave us our first life, our life of vegetation 
yet we arc dead so, as David's Idols are dead. In the womb we have 
eyes and sec not, ears and hear not; There in the womb we are fitted for 
works of darkness, all the while deprived of light: And there in the 
womb we arc taught cruelty, by being fed with blood, and may he damned, 
though we be never born. 

We have a winding sheet in our Mother's womb, which grows with 
us from our conception, and we come into the world, wound up in that 
winding sheet, [or we come to seek a grave; And us prisoners discharged 
of actions may He for fees; so when the womb hath discharged us, yet 
we are bound to it by cords of flesh by such a string, as that we cannot 
go thence, nor stay there; w r e celebrate our own funerals with cries, even 
at our birth; as though our threescore and ten years' life were spent 
in our mothers' labour, and our circle made up in the first point thereof; 
we beg our Baptism, with another Sacrament, with tears; And we come 
into a world that lasts many ages, but we last not. 

This whole world is but an universal churchyard, but our common 
grave, and the life and motion that the greatest persons have in it, is 
but as the shaking of buried bodies in their grave, by an earthquake, 
That which we call life, is but Hebdomad a morlhtm, a week of death, 
seven clays, seven periods of our life spent in dying, u dying seven times 
over, and there is an end. Our birth dies in infancy, and our infancy 
dies in youth, and youth and the rest die in age, and age also dies, and de- 
termines all. Nor do all these, youth out of infancy, or age out of youth 
arise so, as a Phoenix out of the ashes of another Pluruix formerly dead, 
but as a wasp or a serpent out of carrion, or as a Snake out of dung. 
Our youth is worse than our infancy, and our age worse than our youth, 
Our youth is hungry and thirsty, after those sins, which our infancy 
knew not; And our age is sorry and angry, that it cannot pursue those 
sins which our youth did; and besides, all the way, so many deaths, that 
is, so many deadly calamities accompany every condition, and every 
period of this life, as that death itself would be an ease to them that stvJTer 
them: Upon, this sense doth Job wish that (Joel had not given him an 
issue from the first death, from the womb, Wherefore hast thon brought 
me forth out of the womb? that I had given up the (/host, and no 
eye seen me! I should have been as though I had not been,, 

But for us that die now and sleep in the state of the dead, we must 
all pass this posthumc death, this death after death, nay this death after 
burial, this dissolution after dissolution, this death of corruption and 
putrefaction, of vermiculation and incineration, of dissolution and dis- 
persion in and from the grave, when these bodies that have been the 
children of royal parents, and the parents of royal children, must say 


with Job, Corruption thou art my father, and to the Worm thou art 
my mother and my sister. Miserable riddle, when the same worm must 
be my mother, and my sister, and my self. Miserable Incest, when I 
must be married to my mother and my sister, beget and bear that worm 
which is all that miserable penury; when my mouth shall be filled with 
dust, and the worm shall feed, and feed sweetly upon me, when the 
ambitious man shall have no satisfaction, if the poorest alive tread upon 
him, nor the poorest receive any contentment in being made equal to 
Princes, for they shall be equal but in dust. One dieth at his full strength, 
being wholly at ease, and in quiet, and another dies In the bitterness 
of his soul, and never eats with pleasure, but they lie down alike in the 
dust, and the worm covers them; In Job and In Esay, It covers them and 
is spread under them, the worm is spread under thee, and the worm 
covers thee, There's the Mats and the Carpets that lie under, and there's 
the State and the Canopy, that hangs over the greatest of the sons of 
men; Even those bodies that were the temples of the holy Ghost, come 
to this dilapidation, to ruin, to rubbish, to dust, even the Israel of the 
Lord, and Jacob himself hath no other specification, no other denomina- 
tion, but that, ver mis Jacob, Thou worm of Jacob. Truly the considera- 
tion of this posthume death, this death after burial, that after God, 
(with whom are the issues of death) hath delivered me from the death 
of the womb, by bringing me into the world, and from the manifold 
deaths of the world, by laying me in the grave, I must die again in an 
Incineration of this flesh, and in a dispersion of that dust. That all that 
Monarch, who spread over many nations alive, must in his dust lie In 
a corner of that sheet of lead, and there, but so long as that lead will last, 
and that private and retired man, that thought himself his own for ever, 
and never came forth, must in his dust of the grave be published and, 
(such are the revolutions of the graves) be mingled with the dust of every 
highway, and of every dunghill, and swallowed In every puddle and 
pond; This is the most inglorious and contemptible vilification, the 
most deadly and peremptory nullification of man, that we can consider. 



SIR THOMAS OVERBURY was born Queen's College, Oxford, where he 

at Compton- Scorpion, Warwick- graduated B.A. in 1598, and was a 

shire, in 1581. His father was Sir member of the Middle Temple. 

Nicholas Overbury, afterwards a In 1 60 1 he met Robert Carr, then 

judge in Wales and Recorder of page to the Earl of Dunbar and 

Gloucester. He was educated at afterwards King James's favourite, 



and struck up a firm friendship 
with him. When Curt broke his 
arm at a tournament and rose to 
prominence, Ovcrlnuy advised him 
in all his affairs, so that the queen 
nicknamed him Carr's " governor " 
or tutor. Overbury was knighted in 
1608. In 1 6 1 1 or thereabouts Carr 
fell in love with Frances Howard, 
who had married the third Earl of 
Essex in 1606. Lady Essex sought 
to annul her marriage in order that 
she might marry Carr, and Over- 
bury used all his influence to oppose 
the match, though he had not 
objected to the open adultery of the 
pair. The countess contrived to 
get Overbury imprisoned in the 
Tower, and, not satisfied with that, 
got poison served with his food. 
The poison was so unskilfully ad- 
ministered that it caused only ex- 
cruciating agony, not death. After 
being imprisoned three months 
and seventeen clays, Overbury was 
fatally poisoned by a clyster of 
corrosive sublimate on *4th Sep- 
tember, 1613. Ten days later the 
Countess of Essex's marriage was 
annulled, and on the following 
Boxing Day she was married to 
Carr, now Earl of Somerset. She 
was not accused of the rnurcler of 

Overbury until 1615; she pleaded 
guilty, and was sentenced to death, 
but received a pardon. Her less 
guilty husband was imprisoned for 
six years, and four of her humbler 
accomplices were hanged. 

Nothing in Overbury's life was 
so important as his manner of 
leaving it; there is no doubt that 
his sensational death gave an adven- 
titious fame to his writings, which 
were all posthumously published. 
His poem The Wife is a smooth 
but undistinguished didactic poem 
in six-line stanxas. The Characters, 
which, were first printed in the 
second edition of this poem, are 
well written, but only in part the 
work of Overbury. Twenty-one 
appeared in this edition, and even 
of them some were written by 
" other learned Gentlemen his 
friends ". In later editions the 
number rose to a hundred, of 
which but few can have been 
Overbury's. Overbury was neither 
a good man nor n great writer, but 
he acquired a reputation as saint 
and poet on account of his miser- 
able end. 

[A. Amos, The. Great Oycr of 
Poisoning! E, A. Parry, The 
bury Mystery,] 

From " Characters " 


A fair and happy milkmaid is a country wench, that is so far from 
making herself beautiful by art, that one look of hen* is able to put all 
face-physic out of countenance. She knows a fair look is but a dumb 
orator to commend virtue, therefore minds it not. All her excellencies 
stand in her so silently, as if they had stolen upon her without her know- 
ledge. The lining of her apparel (which is herself) is far better than 
outsides of tissue: for though she be not arrayed in the spoil of the 
silkworm, she is decked in innoccncy, a far better wearing. She doth 
not, with lying long abed, spoil both her complexion and conditions. 


Nature hath taught her too immoderate sleep is rust to the soul. She 
rises therefore with chanticleer, her dame's cock, and at night makes 
the lamb her curfew. In milking a cow, and straining the teats through 
her fingers, it seems that so sweet a milk-press makes the milk the whiter 
or sweeter; for never came almond-glove or aromatic ointment on her 
palm to taint it. The golden ears of corn fall and kiss her feet when she 
reaps them, as if they wished to be bound and led prisoners by the same 
hand that felled them. Her breath is her own, which scents all the year 
long of June, like a new-made hay-cock. She makes her hand hard with 
labour, and her heart soft with pity: and when winter evenings fall early 
(sitting at her merry wheel) she sings a defiance to the giddy wheel of 
fortune. She doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seems ignorance 
will not suffer her to do ill, seeing her mind is to do well. She bestows 
her year's wages at next fair; and in choosing her garments, counts 
no bravery in the world like decency. The garden and bee-hive are 
all her physic and chirurgery, and she lives the longer for it. She dares 
go alone, and unfold sheep in the night, and fears no manner of ill, because 
she means none : yet to say truth, she is never alone, for she is still accom- 
panied with old songs, honest thoughts and prayers, but short ones; 
yet they have their efficacy, in that they are not palled with ensuing 
idle cogitations. Lastly, her dreams are so chaste, that she dare tell 
them; only a Friday's dream is all her superstition: that she conceals 
for fear of anger. Thus lives she, and all her care is she may die in the 
spring-time, to have store of flowers stuck upon her winding-sheet. 


A mere scholar is an intelligible ass, or a silly fellow in black, that 
speaks sentences more familiarly than sense. The antiquity of his uni- 
versity is his creed, and the excellency of his college (though but for 
a match at football) an article of his faith. He speaks Latin better than 
his mother-tongue; and is a stranger in no part of the world but his 
own country. He does usually tell great stories of himself to small pur- 
pose, for they are commonly ridiculous, be they true or false. His ambition 
is, that he either is or shall be a graduate: but if ever he get a fellow- 
ship, he has then no fellow. In spite of all logic he dare swear and main- 
tain it, that a cuckold and a townsman are termini convertibiles, though 
his mother's husband be an alderman. He was never begotten (as it 
seems) without much wrangling; for his whole life is spent in pro and 
contra. His tongue goes always before his wit, like gentleman-usher, 
but somewhat faster. That he is a complete gallant in all points, cap 
a pie, witness his horsemanship and the wearing of his weapons. He 
is commonly longwinded, able to speak more with ease, than any man 
can endure to hear with patience. University jests are his universal 



discourse, and his news the demeanour of the proctors. His phrase the 
apparel of his mind, is made of divers shreds like a cushion, and when 
it goes plainest, it hath a rash outside, and fustian linings. The current of 
his speech is elosed with an ergo; ami whatever he the question, the truth 
is on his side. Tis a wrong to his reputation, to he ignorant of any thing- 
and yet he knows not: that he knows nothing. He gives directions for 
husbandry from Virgil's Georgics\ for cattle from his Jlucolics; for war- 
like stratagems from his Aeneid> or Ctvsur's Commentaries, lie orders 
all things by the book, is skilful in all trades, and thrives in none. lie 
is led more by his ears than his understanding, taking the sound of words 
for their true sense: and does therefore confidently believe, that Krra 
Pater was the father of heretics; Rodulphus Agricola a substantial fanner; 
and will not stick to aver that Systema's l<ogic doth excel Keekerman's. 
His ill luck is not so much in being a fool, as in being put to such pains 
to express it to the world: for what in others is natural, in him (with 
much-a-clo) is artificial. His poverty is his happiness, for it makes some 
men believe, that he is none of fortune's favourites. That learning which 
he hath, was in his nonage put in backward like a clyster, and 'tis now 
like ware mislaid in a pedlar's pack; 'a has it, but knows not where it 
is. In a word, he is the index of a man, and the title-page of a scholar; 
or a puritan in morality: much in profession, nothing in practice. 

(? 1602 -1668) 

OWEN FKLLTHAM was the son of 
Thomas Felltham of Mutford, in 
Suffolk, and was bom about 1602. 
Very few details of his life arc 
known. It has been stated that he 
was at Cambridge, for the not very 
conclusive reason that he is not 
mentioned by Wood, the Oxford 
antiquary. At the extremely early 
age of eighteen he published the 
first version of Resolves t the book 
by which he is remembered, if he 
can be said to be remembered at all. 
The first version consisted of a 
hundred reflective and moralizing 
short essays. He appears to have 
held some domestic office, as either 
chaplain or secretary, in the house- 

hold of the Karl of Thomond at 
Great Billing, Northamptonshire. 
A second edition of Resolves ap- 
peared in 1628, and contained <( A 
Heconde Centime " of essays. The 
book proved to be extremely popu- 
lar, and ran into eight editions in 
its author's lifetime. The fourth 
edition reversed the order of the 
two " centuries ", and in the eighth 
edition the earlier century was 
carefully revised and fifteen essays 
were omitted. The book contains 
much respectable but common- 
place middle-class moralising; it 
appealed strongly to those who, 
like Felltham himself, enjoyed re- 
flection without being adepts at it. 


The essays, however, contain plenty 
of excellent good sense, and their 
style, though conceited, is not un- 
attractive. Felltham's other works 
consist of some well- wrought verses, 
including a reply to Jonson's Come, 
leave the loathed stage, which is at 
once a good parody and an admir- 
able criticism; a shrewd descrip- 

tion of Holland entitled A Brie 

^%_ ^_ "* 

Character of the Low Countries 
under the States; and some pleasant 
enough Letters. Felltham was an 
uncompromising Royalist, and went 
so far as to refer to King Charles I 
in one of his poems as " Christ the 
Second ". 

From cc Resolves 55 


The Proud man and the Choleric seldom arrive at any height of 
virtue. Pride is the choler of the mind; and choler is the pride of the 
body. They are sometimes born to good parts of Nature, but they rarely 
are known to add by industry. 'Tis the mild and suffering disposition, 
that oftenest doth attain to Eminency. Temper, and Humility are advan- 
tageous Virtues, for business, and to rise by. Pride and Choler make 
such a noise, that they awake dangers; which the other with a soft tread 
steal by undiscovered. They swell a man so much, that he is too big 
to pass the narrow way. Temper and Humility are like the Fox, when 
he went into the Garner; he could creep in at a little hole, and arrive 
at plenty. Pride and Choler are like the Fox offering to go out, when 
his belly was full; which enlarging him bigger than the passage made 
him stay, and be taken with shame. They, that would come to prefer- 
ment by Pride, are like them that ascend a pair of Stairs on Horseback; 
'tis ten to one, but both their Beasts will cast them, ere they come to 
tread their Chamber. The minds of proud men have not that clear- 
ness of discerning, which should make them judge aright of themselves, 
and others. 'Tis an uncharitable vice, which teaches men how to neglect 
and contemn. So depressing others, it seeketh to raise it self: and by 
this depression angers them, that they bandy against it, till it meets 
with the loss. One thing it hath more than any vice that I know: It 
is an enemy to it self. The proud man cannot endure to see pride in 
another. Diogenes trampled Plato: though indeed 'tis rare to find it 
in men so qualified. The main thing that should mend these two, they 
want; and that is, the Reprehension of a friend. Pride scorns a Corrector, 
and thinks it a disparagement to learn: and Choler admits no counsel 
that crosses him; crossing angers him, and anger blinds him. So if 
ever they hear any fault, it must either be from an Enemy in disdain, 
or from a Friend, that must resolve to lose them by 't. M. Drusus, the 
Tribune of the People, cast the Consul, L. Philippus, into Prison, because 
he did but interrupt him in speech. Other Dispositions may have the 
VOL. ii. ** 



benefits of a friendly Monitor; but these by their vices do seem to give 
a defiance to Counsel. Since, when men once know them, they will 
rather be silent, and let them rest in their folly, than, by admonishing 
them, run into a certain Brawl. There is another thing shows them to 
be both base. They are both most awed by the most abject passion of 
the mind, Fear. We dare neither be proud to one that can punish us; 
nor choleric to one much above us, But when we have to deal with such, 
we clad ourselves in their contraries: as knowing they are habits of 
more safety, -and better liking. Every man flies from the burning house: 
and one of these hath a fire in his heart, and the other discovers it in 
his face. In my opinion, there be no vices that encroach so much on 
Man as these: They take away his Reason, and turn him into a storm; 
and then Virtue herself cannot board him, without danger of defamation, 
I would not live like a Beast, pusht at by all the world for loftiness; nor 
yet like a Wasp, stinging upon every touch. And this moreover shall 
add to my mislilung them, that 1 hold, them things accursed, for sowing 
of strife among Brethren. 



THOMAS MIDDLETON was the son of 
William Middleton, gentleman, and 
was bom in London about 1570. 
Very little is known about his life* 
It is uncertain whether he was at 
either University; it is probable 
that he was entered at Gray's Inn 
in 1593, He was City Chronologcr 
from 1620 until his death, when he 
was succeeded by Ben Jonson, who 
in 1618 had mentioned him to 
Drummond of Hawthornden as " a 
base fellow ". Unlike Jonson, 
Middleton discharged his duties 
faithfully. This is almost all that is 
known about him. He frequently 
collaborated with other dramatists, 
especially with Rowley and Dekker. 
His earliest printed play was Blurt, 
Master-Constable (1602), a light 
comedy. Two interesting prose 
tracts, Father Hubbard's Tale and 

The Black Itook, appeared in 1604, 
Amongst Middlcton's plays may 
be mentioned the following: The 
Ph<rnix\ Michaelmas Term (1607); 
A Trick 1o catch the Old One (1607); 
The 'Family of Love, a weak satire 
on the Puritans (1608); Your Pirn 
Gallant^ A, Mad World ^ my 
Masters (1608); The Roaring Girl 
(written with .Dekker, 1611); A 
Chaste Maid m (2/teapside (1613); 
The Witch} The Mayor of Quln- 
borough; The, Changeling} The 
Spanish Gipsy; and A Game at 
Chcsse (1624), His excellent and 
well-wrought masque. The World 
tost at Tennis > appeared in 1620. 
It is unlikely that Middieton wrote 
a highly incompetent paraphrase of 
The Wisdom of Solomon, which 
appeared in 1597. Micro-cynicon, 
Six Snarling Satires (1:599) may be 



his work. Middleton wrote with 
much fluency, and his plays were 
written under the uncomfortable 
necessity of having to get them 
finished by a fixed date. Yet much 
of his work is memorable and some 
supremely good. The Changeling 
(written with Rowley) is perhaps 
his masterpiece, and in one scene 
(the conversation between De 
Flores and Beatrice after the murder 
of Alonzo) he surpasses Webster 
and Tourneur, and is momentarily 
on a level with Shakespeare. The 
Witch is interesting on account of 
its resemblances to Macbeth, which 
was written earlier; some of the 
songs from Middleton's play were 
afterwards interpolated into Mac- 
beth by the players. A Game at 
Chesse is an altogether excellent 
play, and is perhaps the most 
Aristophanic comedy in English. 
Under the thin disguise of pieces 
and pawns, the characters of the 
play were those English and Spanish 
personages who were involved in 
the matter of the Spanish marriage. 
The Spanish ambassador, whose 
predecessor Gondomar was satirized 

as the Black Knight, got a stop put 
to this play after a run of nine days. 
The play was an instant success, 
and in spite of its short run it 
brought in 1500, an immense sum 
for those days. Middleton was 
fined and perhaps also imprisoned. 
In this play, which is a criticism 
not of city manners and customs, 
but of diplomacy and international 
politics, Middleton reached a height 
to which he never before attained in 

comedv. He died in his house at 


Newington Butts, and was buried 
on 4th July, 1627. Middleton had 
a great poetic and dramatic genius 
which was somewhat hampered by 
the necessity of his earning his 
bread. If the portrait which we 
possess of his serious and earnest 
face is a good one, he was one 
of the most attractive-looking of 
Elizabethan dramatists. 

[A. C. Swinburne, The Age of 
Shakespeare- Pauline G. Wiggin, 
An Enquiry into the Authorship of 
the Middleton-Rowley Plays] Sir 
A. W. Ward, History of English 
Dramatic Literature.] 

From "The Changeling" 

(Enter DE FLORES.) 


My thoughts are at a banquet; for the deed, 
I feel no weight in s t; 'tis but light and cheap 
For the sweet recompense that I set down for 't. 


De Flores! 





Thy looks promise cheerfully. 

I) i? FrxwHs 

All things are answerable, time, circumstance, 
Your wishes, and my service. 

Is it done, then? 

Piracquo Is no more. 


My joys start at mine eyes; our sweet 'si; delights 
Are evermore horn weeping. 

I've a token for you. 

For me? 


But it was sent somewhat unwillingly; 

I could not get the ring without the linger. 

I Producing the, ring 

Bless me, what hast then done? 


Why, is that more 

Than killing the whole man? 1 eut his heart-strings; 
A greedy hand thrust in a dish at court, 
In a mistake hath had as much as this. 

Tis the first token my father made me send him* 


And I have made him send it back again 
For his last token; I was loath to leave it, 


And I'm sure dead men have no use of jewels; 
He was as loath to part with % for it stuck 
As if the flesh and it were both one substance. 


At the stag's fall, the keeper has his fees; 

'Tis soon applied, all dead men's fees are yours, sir; 

I pray, bury the finger, but the stone 

You may make use on shortly; the true value, 

Take 't of my truth, is near three hundred ducats. 


'Twill hardly buy a capcase for one's conscience though, 

To keep it from the worm, as fine as 'tis: 

Well, being my fees, I'll take it; 

Great men have taught me that, or else my merit 

Would scorn the way on 't. 


It might justly, sir; 

Why, thou mistak'st, De Flores, 'tis not given 
In state of recompense. 


No, I hope so, lady; 
You should soon witness my contempt to 't then. 

Prithee thou look'st as if thou wert offended. 


That w r ere strange, lady; 'tis not possible 
My service should draw such a cause from you: 
Offended! could you think so? that were much 
For one of my performance, and so warm 
Yet in my service. 

Twere misery in me to give you cause, sir. 


I know so much, it were so; misery 
In her most sharp condition. 


Tis resolved then; 

Look you, sir, here's three thousand golden florins; 
1 have not meanly though,!; upon thy merit. 

What! salary? now you move me, 

How, DC Florcs? 


Do you plaee me in the rank of verminous fellows, 
To destroy things for wages? offer gold 
For the life-blood of man? is any thing 
Valued too precious for my recompense? 

I understand thee not. 


I could ha' hir'd 

A journeyman in murder at this rate, 
And mine own conscience might have slept at ease, 
And have had the work brought home. 


I'm in a labyrinth; 

What will content him? I'd fain be rid of him. [Aside. 

I'll double the sum, sir, 


You take a course 
To double my vexation, that's the good you clo. 


Bless me, I'm now in worse plight than I was; 

I know not what will please him. (Aside) For my fear's sake, 

I prithee, make away with all speed possible; 

And if thou be'st so modest not to name 

The sum that will content thee, paper blushes not, 


Send thy demand in writing, it shall follow thee; 
But, prithee, take thy flight. 

You must fly too then. 


I'll not stir a foot else. 

What's your meaning? 


Why, are not you as guilty? in, I'm sure, 
As deep as I; and we should stick together: 
Come, your fears counsel you but ill; my absence 
Would draw suspect upon you instantly, 
There were no rescue for you. 

He speaks home! [Aside. 


Nor is it fit we two, engag'd so jointly, 
Should part and live asunder. 


How now, sir? 
This shows not well. 


What makes your lip so strange? 
This must not be betwixt us. 

The man talks wildly! 

Come, kiss me with a zeal now. 


Heaven, I doubt him! [Aside. 

I will not stand so long lo beg 'cm shortly. 


Take heed, De Flores, of forget fulness, 
'Twill soon betray us, 


Take you heed first; 
Faith, you're grown much forgetful, you're to blame in 't. 

He's bold, and 1 am blam'd for 't, [Aside, 


I have cas'd you 

Of your trouble, think on It; I am in pain, 
And must be cas'd of you; 'tis ;i charity, 
Justice Invites your blood to understand me. 

I dare not. 



0, I never shall! 

Speak It yet further off, that I may lose 
What has been spoken, and no sound remain on J t; 
I would not hear so much offence again 
For such another deed. 


Soft, lady, soft! 

The last is not yet paid for: 0, this act 
Has put me into spirit; I was as greedy on 't 
As the parch'd earth of moisture, when the clouds weep; 
Did you not mark, I wrought myself into 't, 


Nay, sued and kneel'd for J t? why was all that pains took? 

You see I've thrown contempt upon your gold; 

Not that I want it not, for I do piteously, 

In order I'll come unto 't, and make use on 't, 

But 'twas not held so precious to begin with, 

For I place wealth after the heels of pleasure; 

And w T ere I not resolv'd in mv belief 


That thy virginity were perfect in thee, 

I should but take my recompense with grudging, 

As if I had but half my hopes I agreed for. 


Why, 'tis impossible thou canst be so wicked, 
Or shelter such a cunning cruelty, 

O . ' 

To make his death the murderer of my honour! 
Thy language is so bold and vicious, 
I cannot see which way I can forgive it 
With any modesty. 


Push! you forget yourself; 

A woman dipp'd in blood, and talk of modesty! 


misery of sin! would I'd been bound 

Perpetually unto my living hate 

In that Piracquo, than to hear these words 1 

Think but upon the distance that creation 

Set 'twixt thy blood and mine, and keep thee there. 


Look but into your conscience, read me there, 

'Tis a true book, you'll find me there your equal: 

Push! fly not to your birth, but settle you 

In what the act has made you, you're no more now; 

You must forget your parentage to me; 

You are the deed's creature; by that name 

You lost your first condition, and I challenge you, 

As peace and innocency have turn'd you out, 

And made you one with me. 

With thee, foul villain? 



Yes, my fair murderess; do you urge me? 

Though thou \vrit\st maid, thou whore in thy affection! 

Twas cluing'd from thy first love, and that's a kind 

Of whoredom in the heart; and he's cliaugM now 

To bring thy second on, thy Alsemero, 

Whom, by all sweets that ever darkness tasted, 

If I enjoy thce not, thou ne'er enjoycstl 

I'll blast the hopes and joys of marriage, 

I'll confess all; my life I rate at nothing, 

De Florcs! 


I shall rest from all love's plagues then; 
I live in pain now; that shooting eye 
Will burn my heart to cinders, 

sir, hear me! 


She that ia life and love refuses me, 

In death and shame my partner she shall be. 

BEATRICE (kiedhig) 

Stay, hear me once for all; I make thce master 
Of all the wealth I have in gold and jewels; 
Let me go poor unto my bed with honour, 
And I am rich in all things! 


Let this silence thec; 

The wealth of all Valencia shall not buy 

My pleasure from me; 

Can you weep Fate from its determined purpose? , 

So soon may you weep me, 

Vengeance begins; 
Murder, I see, is follow'cl by more sins; 



Was my creation in the womb so curst, 
It must engender with a viper first? 

DE FLORES (raisitig her) 

Come, rise and shroud your blushes in my bosom; 

Silence is one of pleasure's best receipts: 

Thy peace is wrought for ever in this yielding. 

'Las, how the turtle pants! thou'lt love anon 

What thou so fear'st and faint *st to venture on. [Exeunt. 

(Act III, Sc. 4.) 


Salisbury in 1583. His father, 
Arthur Massinger, was a member 
of Parliament, and was attached 
to the household of the second Earl 
of Pembroke. He was educated at 
St. Alban's Hall, Oxford, which he 
entered in 1602, and left, without 
taking a degree, in 1606. The third 
Earl of Pembroke (often identified 
with Mr. W. H. of Shakespeare's 
Sonnets) was not a patron of Mas- 
singer's, and this has been ex- 
plained by supposing that the 
dramatist became a Roman Catholic. 
The evidence is not conclusive, 
but there are indications in three 
plays which support this theory. 
The Renegado is a dramatized 
treatise on Christian evidences, 
The Virgin Martyr is a chronicle of 
Christian martyrdom, and The Maid 
of Honour ends with Camiola taking 
the veil. Almost all that we know 
about Massinger's life apart from 
his plays is that he was often short 
of money. In his early days he 
almost invariably collaborated , some- 
times with Dekker, oftener with 
Fletcher. Of the so-called Beau- 

mont and Fletcher plays, at least 
eighteen are believed to contain the 
work of Massinger. When Mas- 
singer died, in 1640, he was buried 
in the same grave as Fletcher. 
There are nineteen plays extant 
which are Massinger's in their 
entirety. Eight other plays were 
extant in manuscript until the 
middle of the eighteenth century, 
when they (with forty-seven other 
old plays) were used for pie-covers 
by -Betsy Baker, the cook of 
John Warburton, F.R.S., Somerset 
Herald, who had got possession of 
them. Among Massinger's plays 
may be mentioned: The Duke of 
Milan, a fine tragedy; The Great 
Duke of Florence (1627), a master- 
piece of dramatic construction; 
The Picture; The City Madam 
(1632); and his best-known play, 
A New Way to pay Old Debts 
(1633). The last-named play has 
long been a favourite, and has kept 
the stage for a long time. This is 
mainly on account of its leading 
character, Sir Giles Overreach, 
who was drawn from the infamous 
extortioner Sir Giles Mompesson, 

3 i6 


banished and degraded from knight- 
hood in 1620. This character 
gives a star-actor a great oppor- 
tunity. Massinger's excellent play 
The Fatal Dowry was shamelessly 
plagiarized by Nicholas Rowe, Pool; 
Laureate and Shakespearean editor, 
in his Fair Penitent (1703). 

Massingcr is perhaps the least 
poetical of all the early dramatists, 
Not only can he not write lyrics; 
his blank verse is pedestrian and 
undistinguished. If, however, he 
stands low as a poet, as a dramatist 
he stands among the first. lie is a 
masterly constructor of plots, far 
surpassing Fletcher, Jonson, or 

Webster in this respect, lie was a 
man of a far more serious cast of 
mind than, most of his fellow-play- 
wrighls. Some of his plays are as 
interesting as a novel, others as 
solid as a, treatise on political philo- 
sophy. The drama was declining 
\vhen he was writing, but he did not 
hasten, though he failed to delay its 
decline, 1 Ic must; be placed at the 
head of the Caroline dramatists. 

^ [A. II. CYuiekshauk, Philip Mas- 
shiger; Sir .Leslie Stephen, Hows 
hi a Library^ A. C. Swinburne, 
Philip Massinger (Fortnightly Re- 
view, July, :t<S8()); 1VL Chelli, Le 
dnww. de, Ma$$ingc)\\ 

From "A New Way to pay Old Debts" 

(OVERREACH (a cruel extortioner) Inwls about truuryiiig 
his daughter with Lord Lovuu,,) 


To my wish we are private. 

I come not to make offer with my daughter 

A certain portion; that were poor and trivial; 

In one word I pronounce all that is mine, 

In lands or leases, ready coin or goods, 

With her, my lord, comes to you; nor shall you have 

One motive to induce you to believe 

I live too long, since every year I'll add 

Something unto the heap, which shall be yours too. 

You are a right kind father, 


You shall have reason 

To think me such. How do you like this seat? 
It is well-wooded and well-water 'd, the acres 
Fertile and rich: would it not serve for change, 
To entertain your friends in a summer's progress? 
What thinks my noble lord? 



'Tis a wholesome air, 

And well-built, and she, that is mistress of it, 

Worthy the large revenue. 

She the mistress? 

It may be so for a time: but let my lord 
Say only that he but like it, and would have it; 
I say, ere long 'tis his. 



You do conclude too fast; not knowing me, 
Nor the engines that I work by. Tis not alone 
The lady Alhvorth's lands: but point out any man's 
In all the shire, and say they lie convenient 
And useful for your lordship; and once more 
I say aloud, they are yours. 


I dare not own 

What's by unjust and cruel means extorted: 
My fame and credit are more dear to me, 
Than so to expose them to be censured by 
The public voice. 


You run, my lord, no hazard: 

Your reputation shall stand as fair 

In all good men's opinions as now; 

Nor can my actions, though condemn 'd for ill, 

Cast any foul aspersion upon yours. 

For though I do contemn report myself, 

As a mere sound; I still will be so tender 

Of what concerns you in all points of honour, 

That the immaculate whiteness of your fame, 

Nor your unquestioned integrity, 

Shall e'er be sullied with one taint or spot 

That may take from your innocence and candour. 

All my ambition is to have my daughter 

Right honourable; which my lord can make her: 


And might I live to dance upon my knee 

A young lord Lovell, born by her unto you, 

I write nil ultra to my proudest hopes. 

As for possessions and annual rents, 

Equivalent to maintain you in the port 

Your noble birth and present state require, 

I clo remove that burden from your shoulders, 

And take it on mine own: for though I ruin 

The country to supply your riotous waste, 

The scourge of prodigals (want) shall never find you. 

Arc you not frighted with the imprecations 
And curses of whole families, made wretched 
By your sinister practices? 


Yes, as rocks are 

When foaming billows split themselves against 

Their flinty ribs; or as the moon is moved 

When wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her brightness, 

I am of a, solid temper, and, like these, 

Steer on a constant course: with mine own sword, 

If calPd into the field, I can make that right, 

Which fearful enemies munnur'd at as wrong, 

Now, for those other peddling complaints, 

Breathed out in bitterness; as, when they call me 

Extortioner, tyrant, cormorant, or intruder 

On my poor neighbour's right, or grand encloser 

Of what was common to my private use; 

Nay, when my ears arc pierced with widows* cries, 

And undone orphans wash with tears my threshold; 

I only think what 'tis to have my daughter 

Right honourable; and 'tis a powerful charm, 

Makes me insensible of remorse or pity, 

Or the least sting of conscience. 

I admire 
The toughness of your nature. 

'Tis for you, 
My lord, and for my daughter, I am marble. 


From "The Picture" 

(MATTHIAS, a knight of Bohemia, going to the wars; in 
parting with his wife, shows her substantial reasons 

why he should go.) 


Since we must part, Sophia, to pass further 

Is not alone impertinent, but dangerous. 

We are not distant from the Turkish camp 

Above five leagues; and who knows but some party 

Of his Timariots, that scour the country, 

May fall upon us? Be now, as thy name 

Truly interpreted hath ever spoke thee, 

Wise and discreet; and to thy understanding 

Marry thy constant patience. 


You put me, sir, 
To the utmost trial of it. 

Nay, no melting: 

Since the necessity, that now separates us, 
We have long since disputed; and the reasons, 
Forcing me to it, too oft wash'd in tears. 
I grant that you in birth were far above me, 
And great men my superiors rivals for you; 
But mutual consent of heart, as hands 
Join'd by true love, hath made us one and equal: 
Nor is it in me mere desire of fame, 
Or to be cried up by the public voice 
For a brave soldier, that puts on my armour; 
Such airy tumours take not me: you know 
How narrow our demeans are; and what's more, 
Having as yet no charge of children on us, 
We hardly can subsist. 


In you alone, sir, 
I have all abundance. 


For my mind's content, 

In your own language I could answer you. 


You have been an obedient wife, u right; one; 

And to my power, though short: of your desert, 

{ have been ever an indulgent husband. 

We have long enjoy M the sweets of love, and though 

Not to satiety or loathing, yet 

We must not live such dotards on our pleasures, 

As still to hug them to the certain, loss 

Of profit and preferment* Competent: means 

Maintains a quiet: bed, want breeds dissension, 

Kv'n in good women. 


Have you found in me, sir, 

Any distaste or sign of discontent, 

For want of what's superfluous? 

No, Sophia; 

Nor shalt thou ever have cause to repent: 
Thy constant course in goodness, if Heaven bless 
My honest undertakings, "f is for thee, 
That 1 turn soldier, and put forth, dearest, 
Upon this sea of action as a factor, 
To trade for rich materials to adorn 
Thy noble parts, and show them in full lustre. 
I blush that other ladies, less in beauty 
And outward form, but, in the harmony 
Of the soul's ravishing music, the same ago 
Not to be named with thee, should so outshine thee 
In jewels and variety of wardrobes; 
While you, to whose sweet innocence both Indies 
Compared are of no value, wanting these, 
Pass unregarded. 


If I ara so rich, 

Or in your opinion so, why should you borrow 
Addition for me? 


Why? I should be censured 

Of ignorance, possessing such a jewel, 

Above all price, if I forbear to give it 

The best of ornaments. Therefore, Sophia, 

In few words know my pleasure, and obey me; 


As you have ever done. To your discretion 

I leave the government of my family, 

And our poor fortunes, and from these command 

Obedience to you as to myself: 

To the utmost of what's mine, live plentifully: 

And, ere the remnant of our store be spent, 

With my good sword I hope I shall reap for you 

A harvest in such full abundance, as 

Shall make a merry winter. 


Since you are not 

To be diverted, sir, from what you purpose, 
All arguments to stay you here are useless. 
Go when you please, sir. Eyes, I charge you, w j aste not 
One drop of sorrow; look you hoard all up, 
Till in my widow'd bed I call upon you: 
But then be sure you fail not. You blest angels, 
Guardians of human life, I at this instant 
Forbear to invoke you at our parting; 'twere 
To personate devotion. My soul 
Shall go along with you; and when you are 
Circled with death and horror, seek and find you; 
And then I will not leave a saint unsued to 
For your protection. To tell you what 
I will do in your absence, would show poorly; 
My actions shall speak me. 'Twere to doubt you, 
To beg I may hear from you where you are; 
You cannot live obscure: nor shall one post 
By night or day, pass unexamined by me. 
If I dwell long upon your lips, consider 
After this feast the griping fast that follows; 
And it will be excusable; pray, turn from me; 
All that I can is spoken. 

From "The Virgin Martyr" 

(ANGELO, an Angel, attends DOROTHEA as a page. 

The time, midnight.) 

My book and taper. 


Here, most holy mistress. 
VOL. II. 45 



Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never 
Was ravish'd with a more celestial sound. 
Were every servant In the world like theo, 
So full of goodness, angels would come down 
To dwell with us: thy name is Angelo, 
And like that name them art. Get thec to rest; 
Thy youth with too much watching is oppress 


No, my clear lady. I could weary stars, 
And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes, 
By my late watching, but to wail; on you. 
When at your prayers you kneel before the altar, 
Metlunks I'm singing with some quire in heaven, 
So blest I hold me in your company. 
Therefore, my most loved mistress, do not hid 
Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence; 
For then you break his heart. 


Be nigh me still, then. 

In golden letters down I'll set that day, 

Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope 

To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself, 

This little, pretty body, when I coming 

Forth of the temple, heard my beggar-boy, 

My' sweet-faced, godly beggar-boy, crave an alms, 

Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand; 

And when I took thce home, my most chaste bosom 

Methought was filFd with no hot wanton lire, 

But with a holy flame, mounting since higher, 

On wiags of cherubims, than it did before, 


Proud am I that my lady's modest eye 
So likes so poor a servant. 

I have offer'd 

Handfuls of gold, but to behold thy parents. 
I would leave kingdoms, were I queen of some. 


To dwell with thy good father; for, the son 
Bewitching me so deeply with his presence, 
He that begot him must do 't ten times more. 
I pray thee, rny sweet boy, show me thy parents; 
Be not ashamed. 


I am not: I did never 

Know 7 who my mother was; but, by yon palace, 

Fill'd with bright heavenly courtiers, I dare assure you, 

And pawn these eyes upon it, and this hand, 

My father is in heaven; and, pretty mistress, 

If your illustrious hour-glass spend his sand 

No \vorse, than yet it doth, upon my life, 

You and I both shall meet my father there, 

And he shall bid you welcome. 



A bless J d day! 

(? 1575 -1626) 

CYRIL TOURNEUR was born about 
1575. He was probably the son and 
almost certainly a near relative of 
Captain Richard Turner, who was 
lieutenant-governor of Brill. Al- 
most nothing is known of his life, 
except that in 1613 he carried 
" letters for his Majestie's service 
to Brussels ", and that he accom- 
panied Sir Edward Cecil to Cadiz 
in 1625. On his return from the 
expedition he took ill; he was put 
ashore at Kinsale, wiiere he died, 
leaving his widow destitute. Tour- 
neur's poems consist of The Trans- 
formed Metamorphosis (printed 1600, 
rediscovered 1872), a satire w r hose 
key is lost and which is written in 
an unintelligible jargon; and two 
elegies, A Funeral Poem on Sir 

Francis Vere (1609) and A Grief e 
on the Death of Prince Henrie 
(1613), neither of which rises above 
the level of official lamentations. 
Tourneur's fame rests entirely on 
his two tragedies, The Revenger's 
Tragedy (published 1607) and The 
Atheist's Tragedy (published 1611). 
It is almost certain that the play 
which was published the later was 
written the earlier of the two. A 
third tragedy, The Nobleman (1612), 
was destroyed by Warburton's cook. 
The Atheist's Tragedy is immature, 
The Revenger's Tragedy a much 
stronger and more finished play. 
As dramas both plays leave much 
to be desired. They have little 
dramatic power, and their charac- 
ters are caricatures. It is the force 


and flow of Tourncur's poetry that 
distinguishes his work. " Cluios 
and old Night " brood over his 
plays; and the (a rand Guignol 
element in them is prominent. In 
gloom and in tragic cynicism he re- 
sembles Webster; it has been said 
that Tourneur is to Webster as 
Webster is to Shakespeare. Swin- 

burne in his characteristie eulogy 
has undoubtedly overvalued Tour- 
neur, but on the strength of his 
masterpiece he must, be placed 
among the great Jaeobcaus. 

|Jf. Churtou (Collins, The Plays 
and Poems of (Jyril Tourneur; A. C. 
Swinburne, Tim Age. of KJiakc- 

From "The Revenger's Tragedy" 

(ViNDiCE addresses the Skull of his dead Lady.} 

Thou sallow picture of my poison'd love, 
My study's ornament, thou shell of death, 
Once the bright face of my betrothed lady, 
When life and beauty naturally HUM out 
These ragged imperfections; 
When two heaven-pointed diamonds were set 
In those unsightly rings then 'twas a face 
So far beyond the artificial shine 
Of any woman's bought complexion, 
That the uprightest man (if such there be 
That sin but seven times a day) broke custom, 
And made up eight with looking after her. 
0, she was able to have made a usurer's son 
Melt all his patrimony in a kiss; 
And what his father fifty years told, 
To have consumed, and yet his suit been cold. 

Here's an eye 

Able to tempt a great man to serve God; 
A pretty hanging lip, that has forgot now to dissemble. 
Methinks this mouth should make a swearer tremble; 
* A drunkard clasp his teeth, and not undo 'em, 
To suffer wet damnation to run through 'em, 
Here's a check keeps her colour let the wind go whistle: 
Spout rain, we fear thee not: be hot or cold, 
AlPs one with us: and is not he absurd, 
Whose fortunes are upon their faces set, 
That fear no other God but wind and wet? 
Does the silk-worm expend her yellow labours 
For thee? for thee does she undo herself? 
Are lordships sold to maintain ladyships, 



For the poor benefit of a bewitching minute? 

Why does yon fellow falsify highways, 

And put his life between the judge's lips, 

To refine such a thing? keep his horse and men, 

To beat their valours for her? 

Surely we're all mad people, and they 

Whom we think are, are not. 

Does every proud and self-affecting dame 

Camphire her face for this? and grieve her Maker 

In sinful baths of milk, when many an infant starves, 

For her superfluous outside, for all this? 

Who now bids twenty pound a night? prepares 

Music, perfumes, and sweetmeats? all are hush'd. 

Thou mayst lie chaste nowl it were fine, methinks, 

To have thee seen at revels, forgetful feasts, 

And unclean brothels: sure 'twould fright the sinner, 

And make him a good coward: put a reveller 

Out of his antick amble, 

And cloy an epicure with empty dishes. 

Here might a scornful and ambitious woman 

Look through and through herself. See, ladies, with false forms 

You deceive men, but cannot deceive worms. 


ROBERT BURTON was born at Lind- 
ley, in Leicestershire, in 1577. He 
was educated at the Grammar 
School at Nuneaton and at Sutton 
Coldfield, Warwickshire. In 1593 
he went to Brasenose College, Ox- 
ford, and in 1599 was elected a 
student of Christ Church, where 
he spent the remainder of his life. 
At some unknown date he took 
holy orders, and became a Bachelor 
of Divinity in 1614. In 1616 he 
was presented to the vicarage of 
St. Thomas's, Oxford, and about 
1630 he received in addition the 
rectory of Segrave, in Leicester- 
shire. His uneventful life ter- 

minated at Christ Church in 1640; 
it was said, without any foundation, 
that he hanged himself in order to 
make his own astrological prog- 
nostication of his death come 
true. His epitaph is well known 
" Faucis notus, paucioribus ignotus, 
hie iacet Democritus Junior, cm 
vitam dedit et mortem Melancholia ". 
Burton in 1606 wrote and in 
1615 revised a Latin comedy, Philo- 
sophaster, which was acted at Christ 
Church in 1618. It was long 
thought to be lost, but a MS. was 
discovered and printed for the 
Roxburghe Club in 1862. The 
comedy is excellent of its kind, but, 



not unnaturally, is little known. 
Burton is essentially homo wiius 
lihri, but what a book! The Anatomy 
of Melancholy, what // ;V, with all 
the kinds, causes, symptom, prog- 
nostics, and several cures of //, ///. 
three Partitions, with their several 
sections, members, and subsections, 
Philosophically , Medicinally , 1 lis~ 
torically opened and cut ///>, by 
Democritns Junior first appeared 
in quarto in 1621, and four other 
editions, in folio, appeared in the 
author's lifetime, each containing 
some improvements and additions, 
A sixth edition, printed 'from a 
copy annotated by Burton, came 
out in 1651, The hook thus at 
once achieved considerable popu- 
larity, and it did so because it con- 
formed to the taste of the time, not 
on account of its eccentricities. 
Indeed its eccentricities have been 
greatly exaggerated; the book is 
not an elaborate joke, conceived 
and written in the spirit of Rabe- 
lais, but a great medical treatise, 
serious in purpose, written by one 
who held that the victims of 
melancholy had need of the divine 
as well as of the physician. Burton's 
age produced not a few works 
similarly written, but they are for- 
gotten because the learning they 
contain is specialized, not universal 
like that of Burton, lie indeed 
took all knowledge for his pro- 
vince; melancholy is his nominal 
subject; his actual, theme is no less 
than the whole life of man; Iwmi- 

nem paglna -noslra AYJ/>//. Burton 
was, beyond everything, a helluo 
//bronnn] he must; have worked 
his way through, the whole of the 
recently-rounded Bodleian, so that 
his book, like Ins melancholy, is 
" compounded of many simples, 
extracted from many objects ". 
The vast number of quotations 
which he introduces, always aptly, 
culling some of them from the 
most out-of-the-way stores of 
learning, has always had a great 
charm for scholars. Dr. Johnson 
declared that the Anatomy of Mel- 

"B 1 * 

aneholy was the only book that 
ever drew him out of heel an hour 
sooner than he would otherwise 
have got up. Sterne plagiarized 
freely from Burton, and many later 
and lesser writers have used him 
as a quarry. Lamb was an ardent 

Ji *' 

devotee of the " fantastic old great 
man ". Burton does not: appeal to 
everyone; some critics of weight, 
Ilallam and Macau lay among them, 
cannot stomach him; but; those 
who relish him do so with, their 
whole heart. The commercial 
spirit shown by publishers is not 
always of benefit to mankind; but 
it was when it: prevented Burton 
from composing his great work in 

[A. R. Slulleto, The Analogy of 
Melancholy-, C, Whibley, Literary 
Portraits-* V. Miulaii, Robert Burton 
ami the Anatomy of Melancholy] 
O. C. F, Mead 'and R. 0. Cliff, 
Bur ion the Anatomist,} 

From " The Anatomy of Melancholy " 

Part II, Section //, Member IV 

To that great inconvenience, which comes on the one side by im- 
moderate and unseasonable exercise, too much solitariness and idle- 
ness on the other, must be opposed, as an Antidote, a moderate and 


seasonable use of it, and that both of body and mind, as a most material 
circumstance, much conducing to this cure, and to the general pre- 
servation of our health. The Heavens themselves run continually round, 
the Sun riseth and sets, the Moon increaseth and decreaseth, Stars and 
Planets keep their constant motions, the air is still tossed by the winds, 
the waters ebb and flow, to their conservation no doubt, to teach us 
that we should ever be in action. For which cause Hierom prescribes 
Rusticus the Monk, that he be always occupied about some business 
or other, that the Devil do not find him idle. Seneca would have a man 
do something, though it be to no purpose. Xenophon wisheth one 
rather 'to play at tables, dice, or make a jester of himself (though he 
might be far better employed) than do nothing. The Egyptians of old, 
and many flourishing Commonwealths since, have enjoined labour 
and exercise to all sorts of men, to be of some vocation and calling, and 
to give an account of their time, to prevent those grievous mischiefs 
that come by idleness; for as fodder, whip, and burden, belong to the 
ass, so meat, correction and work unto the servant, Ecclits. 33. 24. The 
Turks enjoin all men whatsoever, of \vhat degree, to be of some trade 
or other, the grand Seignior himself is not excused. In our memory 
(saith Sabellicus) Mahomet the Turk, he that conquered Greece, at 
that very time when he heard Embassadors of other Princes did either 
carve or cut wooden spoons, or frame something upon a table. This 
present Sultan makes notches for bows. The Jews are most severe in 
this examination of time. All well-governed Places, Towns, Families, 
and every discreet person will be a law unto himself. But amongst us 
the Badge of Gentry is idleness, to be of no calling, not to labour, for 
that's derogatory to their birth, to be a mere spectator, a drone, fruges 
consumere natus, to have no necessary employment to busy himself about 
in Church and Commonwealth (some few Governors exempted) but 
to rise to eat, etc. to spend his days in hawking, hunting, etc, and such- 
like disports and recreations (which our casuists tax) are the sole exercise 
almost and ordinary actions of our Nobility, and in which they are too 
immoderate. And thence it comes to pass that in City and Country 
so many grievances of body and mind, and this feral disease of Melan- 
choly so frequently rageth, and now domineers almost all over Europe 
amongst our great ones. They know not how to spend their time (dis- 
ports excepted, which are all their business), what to do, or otherwise 
how to bestow themselves: like our modern Frenchmen, that had rather 
lose a pound of blood in a single combat than a drop of sweat in any 
honest labour. Every man almost hath something or other to employ 
himself about, some vocation, some trade, but they do all by ministers 
and servants; ad otia duntaxat se natos exisiimant, immo ad mi ipsius 
pkrumque et aliorum pernidem as one freely taxeth such kind of men; 
they are all for pastimes, 'tis all their study; all their invention tends 


to this alone to drive away time, as if they were horn sonic of them to 
no other ends. Therefore to correct 1 and avoid those errors and incon- 
veniences, our Divines, Physicians, and Politicians, so much labour, and 
so seriously exhort; and for this disease in particular there can he no 
better cure than continual business, as Rluusis holds, to have some employ- 
ment or other, which may set their mind awork, and distract: their cogi- 
tations. Riches may not easily be had without labour and industry, nor 
learning without study, neither can our health be preserved without 
bodily exorcise. If it be of the body, Guiauerius allows that: exercise 
which is gentle, and still after those ordinary lYiealions, which must 
be used every morning. Montaltus, />. :i() t and, Jason IVateusis use 
almost the same words, highly commending exercise, if it; be moderate; 
a wonderful help so used, Crato calls it, and a groat means to preserve 
our health, as adding strength to the whole body, increasing natural heat, 
by means of which the nutriment: is well concocted in the stomaek, 
liver, and veins, few or no crudities left, is happily distributed over 
all the body. Besides, it expels excrements by sweat, and other insensible 
vapours, in so mueh that Galen prefers Exercise before all Physick, Rec- 
tification of Diet, or any Regiment; in what kind soever; 'tis Nature's 
Physician. Fulgentius, out; of Gordonius, <!a rwwr/. ?'//, how. Lib. I. 
cap. 7, terms exercise a spur of a dull sleepy nature, the comforter of 
the members, cure of infirmity, death of diseases, destruction of all 
mischiefs and viees, The fittest time for exercise is a little before dinner, 
a little before supper, or ut any time when the body is empty* Montamus, 
consiL 31, prescribes it every morning to his -patient 1 , and that, as Calenus 
adds, after he hath done his ordinary needs, rubbed bin body, washed 
his hands and face, combed Ids head, and gargarixcd. What kind of 
exercise he should use Galen tells us, lib, a & 3. tlr /////. ttwwl. and 
in what measure, till the body be ready to sweat, and, roused up; ad 
ntborcM) some say, non ad sudorcm^ lest it should dry the body too mueh; 
others enjoin those wholesome businesses, as to dig so long in his garden, 
to hold the plough, and the like. Some prescribe frequent; and violent 
labour and exercises, as sawing every day, so long together, (r/>/V. 6, 
Hippocrates confounds them), but that is in some cases, to sonic peculiar 
men; the most forbid, and by no means will have it go farther than a 
beginning sweat, as being perilous if it exceed. 

Of these labours, exercises, and recreations, -which are likewise included, 
some properly belong to the body, some to the mind, some more easy, 
some hard, some with delight, some without, some within doors, some 
natural, some arc artificial. Amongst bodily exercises Galen commends 
ludumparvacpilac, to play at hall, be it with the hand or racket, in Tennis- 
courts or otherwise, it cxerciseth each part of the body, and cloth much 
good, so that they sweat not too much. It was in #reat request of old 
amongst the Greeks, Romans, Barbarians, mentioned by Homer, Hero- 


dotus, and Pliny. Some write, that Aganella, a fair maid of Corcyra, 
was the inventor of it, for she presented the first ball that ever was made 
to Nausicaa, the daughter of king Alcinous, and taught her how to use it. 
The ordinary sports which are used abroad are Hawking, Hunting, 
htlares venandi labores, one calls them because they recreate body and 
mind; another the best exercise that is, by which alone many have been 
freed from all feral diseases. Hegesippus, lib. I. cap. 37, relates of Herod, 
that he was eased of a grievous melancholy by that means. Plato, 
7. de. leg. (p. 823) highly magnifies it, dividing it into three parts, by Land, 
Water, Air. Xenophon, in Cyropaed. graces it with a great name, Deorum 
mimus, the gift of the Gods, a Princely sport, which they have ever used, 
saith Langius, epist. 59. lib. 2, as well for health as pleasure, and do at 
this day, it being the sole almost and ordinary sport of our Noblemen of 
Europe, and elsewhere all over the world. Bohemus, de mor. gent. lib. 3. 
cap. 12, styles it therefore stadium nobilium\ communiter venantur, qtiod 
sibi solis licere contendunt\ 'tis all their study, their exercise, ordinary 
business, all their talk; and indeed some dote too much after it, they can 
do nothing else, discourse of naught else. Paulus Jovius, descr. Brit. 
doth in some sort tax our English Nobility for it, for living in the country 
so much, and too frequent use of it, as if they had no other means but 
Hawking and Hunting to approve themselves Gentlemen with. 

Hawking comes near to Hunting, the one in the Air, as the other 
on the Earth, a sport as much affected as the other, by some preferred. 
It was never heard of amongst the Romans, invented some 1200 years 
since, and first mentioned by Firmicus, lib. 5, cap. 8. The Greek Ern- 
perors began it, and now nothing so frequent: he is no body that in the 
season hath not a Hawk on his fist. A great Art, and many books written 
of it. It is a wonder to hear what is related of the Turks 5 Officers in this 
behalf, how many thousand men are employed about it, how many Hawks 
of all sorts, how much revenues consumed on that only disport, how much 
time is spent at Adrianople alone every year to that purpose. The Persian 
Kings hawk after Butterflies with sparrows, made to that use, and stares; 
lesser Hawks for lesser games they have, and bigger for the rest, that 
they may produce their sport to all seasons. The Muscovian Emperors 
reclaim Eagles to fly at Hinds, Foxes, etc. and such a one was sent for 
a present to Queen Elizabeth: some reclaim Ravens, Castrils, Pies, etc. 
and man them for their pleasures. 

Fowling is more troublesome, but all out as delightsome to some 
sorts of men, be it with guns, lime, nets, glades, gins, strings, baits, 
pitfalls, pipes, calls, stalking-horses, setting-dogs, coy-ducks, etc or 
otherwise. Some much delight to take Larks with day-nets, small birds 
with chaff-nets, plovers, partridges, herons, snite, etc._ Henry the Ibird, 
Kino; of Castile (as Mariana the Jesuit reports of him , lib. 3. cap. %) 
was much affected with catching of Quails, and many Gentlemen take 


a singular pleasure at morning and evening to go abroatl with their Quail- 
pipes, and will take any pains to satisfy their delight in that kind. The 
Italians have gardens lilted to such use, "with nets, hushes, glades, sparing 
no cost or industry, and are very much nlVeeved with the sport. Tyeho 
Brake, that great Astronomer, in the Cliorography of his Isle of Hucna, 
& Castle of Uranihurge, puts down his nets, and manner of catching 
small birds, as an ornament, and' a recreation, wherein he himself was 
sometimes employed. 

Fishing is a kind of hunting by water, he it; with, nets, weels, baits, 
angling or otherwise, and yields all out; as much, pleasure to some men 
as dogs or hawks; whe,n 1hcy draw fish upon the lwn/\\ sailh Nie. 
Ilenselius, Sites io<rntf)hiue, cap. 3, speaking of that extraordinary delight 
his Countrymen took in fishing, and in making of pools, James Dubravius, 
that Moravian, in his book de pise, telleth how, travelling by the high- 
way side in Silesia, he found a Nobleman booted up to the groins, wading 
himself, pulling the nets, and labouring as much as any fisherman of 
them all: and when some belike objected to him the baseness of his 
office, he excused himself, that if oilier men ;///#/// hunt Hares, why should 
not he hunt Carps? Many Gentlemen in like sort; with, us will wade tip 
to the Ann-holes upon such occasions, and voluntarily undertake that, 
to satisfy their pleasure, which a poor man for a good stipend would 
scarce be hired to undergo. Plutarch, in his book /)e softer. anhnaL speaks 
against all fishing, as a filthy, base, illiberal employment, having neither 
wit nor perspicacity in it, nor worth, the labour. Hut he that: shall con- 
sider the variety of Baits, for all seasons, & pretty devices which our 
Anglers have invented, peculiar lines, false Hies, several, sleights, etc. 
will say that it deserves like commendation, requires as much study 
and perspicacity as the rest, and is to be preferred before many of them. 
Because hawking and hunting are very laborious, much, riding and many 
dangers accompany them; but this Is still and quid: and if so be the 
angler catch no Fish, yet he hath a wholesome walk to the Brook side, 
pleasant shade by the sweet silver streams; he hath, good air, and sweet 
smells of line fresh meadow flowers, he hears the melodious harmony of 
Birds, he sees the Swans, Herons, Ducks, Water-hens, Cools, etc. and 
many other Fowl, with their brood, which he thinketh better than the 
noise of Hounds, or blast of Horns, and all the sport thai; they can make, 

Many other sports and recreations there be, much in use, as ringing, 
bowling, shooting, which Ascham commends in a just volume, and 
hath in former times been enjoined by statute as a defensive exercise, 
and an honour to our Land, as well may witness our victories in France. 
Keelpins, trunks, quoits, pitching bars, hurling, wrestling, leaping, running, 
fencing, mustering, swimming, wasters, foils, foot-ball, baioon, quintain, 
etc. and many such, which are the common recreations of the country 
folk; riding of great horses, running at rings, tills and tournaments, 


horse-races, wild-goose chases, which are the disports of greater men, 
and good in themselves, though many Gentlemen, by that means, gallop 
quite out of their fortunes. 

But the most pleasant of all outward pastimes is that of Aretaeus, 
deambulatio per amoena loca, to make a petty progress, a merry journey 
now and then with some good companions, to visit friends, see Cities, 
Castles, Towns, 

Visere saepe amnes nitidos, peramoenaque Tempe, 
Et placidas summis sectari in montibus auras: 

To see the pleasant fields, the crystal fountains, 
And take the gentle air amongst the mountains: 

to walk amongst Orchards, Gardens, Bowers, Mounts, and Arbours, 
artificial wildernesses, green thickets, Arches, Groves, Law T ns, Rivulets, 
Fountains, and such like pleasant places, like that Antiochian Daphne, 
Brooks, Pools, Fishponds, betwixt wood and water, in a fair meadow, 
by a river side, ubi variae avium cantationes, florum colores, pratorum 
fmtices, etc. to disport in some pleasant plain, park, run up a steep 
hill sometimes, or sit in a shady seat, must needs be a delectable recreation. 
Hortus prindpis et domus ad delectationem facia, cum syfoa, monte et 
piscina, vulgo La Montagna: the Prince's garden at Ferrara Schottus 
highly magnifies, with the groves, mountains, ponds, for a delectable 
prospect, he was much affected with it; a Persian Paradise, or pleasant 
park, could not be more delectable in his sight. S. Bernard, in the de- 
scription of his Monastery, is almost ravished with the pleasures of it. 
A sick man (saith he) sits upon a green bank, and when the Dog-star parcheth 
the plains, and dries up rivers, he lies in a shady bower, Fronde sub arborea 
ferventia temperat astra, and feeds his eyes with variety of objects, herbs, 
trees; to comfort his misery, he receives many delightsome smells, and fills 
his ears zdih that sweet and various harmony of Birds. Good God! (saith 
he) what a company of pleasures hast thou made for man! He that should 
be admitted on a sudden to the sight of such a Palace as that of Escurial 
in Spain, or to that which the Moors built at Granada, Fontainebleau 
in France, the Turk's gardens in his Seraglio, wherein all manner of 
birds and beasts are kept for pleasure, Wolves, Bears, Lynxes, Tigers, 
Lions, Elephants, etc. or upon the banks of that Thracian Bosphorus: 
the Pope's Belvedere in Rome, as pleasing as those Horti pensiles in Babylon, 
or that Indian King's delightsome garden in Aelian; or those famous 
gardens of the Lord Cantelow in France, could not choose, though he 
were never so ill apaid, but be much recreated for the time; or many 
of our Noblemen's gardens at home. To take a boat in a pleasant evening, 
and with musick to row upon the waters, which Plutarch so much applauds, 
Aelian admires upon the river Peneus, in those Thessalian fields beset 
with green bays, where birds so sweetly sing that passengers, enchanted 

33 : 


as it were with their heavenly nmsick, omnium htbornm cl cuninnn oblivi- 
scautur, forget forthwith all labours, care, ami grief: or in a Gondola 
through the Grand Canal in Venice, to sec those goodly .Palaces, must 
needs refresh and give content to a melancholy dull spirit. 



EDWARD UKRBHRT, afterwards Lord 
Herbert of Cherbury, was the son 
of Richard Herbert of Montgomery 
Castle and a brother of George 
Herbert (q.v.) He was born at: 
Ey ton-on- Severn in 1583, and was 
educated at University College, 
Oxford. While still at Oxford 'he 
married his cousin Mary, an heir- 
ess, and soon became a courtier 
and a well-known figure in London. 
King James made him a Knight of 
the Bath soon after his accession in 
1603. He travelled much abroad, 
and became famous or notorious 
as a horseman and a duellist, lie 
took part in the siege of Juliers, 
and, in 1614, joined the army of 
the Prince of Orange and dis- 
tinguished himself by acts of 
bravery and foolhardincss. Ills 
innumerable adventures probably 
do not lose anything in the telling 
in his Autobiography. In 1619 
Herbert was appointed ambassador 
at Paris, though he was too impetu- 
ous a man to be an ideal diplo- 
matist. He discharged his duties 
conscientiously, but was sent home 
in 1624 for not carrying out the 
king's wishes in regard to the 
negotiations for the marriage of 
Prince Charles and Princess Henri- 
etta Maria. Before he left Paris he 
published his philosophical treatise 
De Veritate. He returned home 

under a cloud, and in debt, and 
was fobbed oil; with an Irish peer- 
age (Lord Castleisland). Ju 1629 
lie was given an English peerage 
(Lord Herbert of Cherhury), but 
he never received the high office 
or oil ices to which ho believed his 
merits entitled him* His Life o/ 
Henry VIII was begun in 1,632, 
but not published until 1649. It 
is the result; of considerable but 
not judicious research; it is well 
documented, but biased in its 
treatment of Henry's character, 
During the Civil War, Herbert 
was at; first: a Royalist, but after- 
wards endeavoured to be a neutral, 
and lost the esteem of both parties, 
Eventually he admitted a Parlia- 
mentary force into Montgomery 
Castle and submitted to Parlia- 
ment, receiving a pension of -20 
a week. He retired to his house in 
Queen Street, London, and occu- 
pied himself with the composition 
of his Autobiography and other 
literary works. In 1,646 he was 
appointed steward of the duchy of 
Cornwall and warden of the Stan- 
naries, lie died on 20th August, 
1648. Donne, Ben Jouson, Curew, 
and Seklen were among his inti- 
mate friends. 

Herbert of Cherbury is famous 
for three things. He was the first 
Englishman to write a metaphysical 



treatise; he was a forerunner of the 
Deists; and he wrote one of the 
most entertaining autobiographies 
in the language. His De Veritate, 
prout distinguitur a Revelatione, 
verisimili) possibili, et a falso is a 
solid and able metaphysical work 
in Latin; De Causis Erronim (1645) 
and De Religione Gentilmm (pub- 
lished 1663) may be considered as 
completions of the religious and 
philosophical system expounded in 
his earlier work. He laid down the 
five fundamental propositions of 
cleism: that there is one supreme 
God; that He ought to be wor- 
shipped; that virtue and piety are 
the main elements of worship; that 
repentance is a duty; and that 
there are rewards and punishments 
both in this life and after it. His 
delightful Autobiography, upon 
which his popularity if not his 
entire fame rests, was written 
about 1645, but not published until 
1764, when Horace Walpole printed 
it privately at Strawberry Hill. It 
is a naive and egotistic work whose 

charm largely resides in its naivete 
and egotism. Herbert says little 
about his high office, his distin- 
guished friends, and his philosophi- 
cal speculations; much about his 
exploits as duellist and amorist. 
He was a curiously mixed character, 
even for Elizabethan days: a blend 
of Hamlet and Tybalt; a grave 
philosopher who wrote in Latin, 
and a swaggering swordsman who 
wrote in English; a diplomatist 
whose motto might have been non 
verba sed Berber a. His poems are 
similar to those of Donne and 
the metaphysical school; accord- 
ing to Jonson, he and Donne 
once had a competition in obscure- 
ness. Some of his lighter poems, 
however, have charm and are melo- 

[C. de Remusat, Lord Herbert 
de Cherlury\ Sir Sidney Lee ? The 
Autobiography of Lord Herbert of 
Cherbury, J. Churton Collins, Lord 
Herbert of Cherbury's Poems; G. 
C. Moore-Smith, The Poems of 
Lord Herbert of Cherbury.] 

From the "Autobiography" 

Shortly after I was made Knight of the Bath, with the usual cere- 
monies belonging to that ancient order. I could tell how much my person 
was commended by the lords and ladies that came to see the solemnity 
then used, but I shall flatter myself too much if I believed it. 

I must not forget yet the ancient custom, being that some principal 
person was to put on the right spur of those the king had appointed 
to receive that dignity. The Earl of Shrewsbury seeing my esquire 
there with my spur in his hand, voluntarily came to me and said, " Cousin, 
I believe you will be a good knight, and therefore I will put on your spur;" 
whereupon after my most humble thanks for so great a favour, I held 
up my leg against the wall, and he put on my spur. 

There is another custom likewise, that the knights the first day wear 
the gown of some religious order, and the night following to be bathed; 
after which they take an oath never to sit in place where injustice should 
be done, but they shall right it to the uttermost of their power; and 


particularly ladies and gentlewomen that shall be wronged in their honour 
if they demand assistance, and many other points, not unlike the romances 
of knight errantry. 

The second day to wear robes of crimson talTety (in which habit 
I am painted in my study), and so to ride From St. James's to White- 
hall, with our esquires before us; and the third day to wear a gown of 
purple satin, upon the left sleeve whereof is fastened certain strings 
weaved of white silk and gold tied in a knot, and tassels to il; of the same 
which all the knights are obliged to wear until they have done some- 
thing famous in arms, or until some lady of honour take it off, and fasten 
it on her sleeve, saying, I will answer lie shall prove a good knight, I 
had not long worn this string, but a principal lady of the court, and 
certainly, in most men's opinion, the handsomest, took mine off, and 
said she would pledge her honour for mine. I do not name this lady, 
because some passages happened afterwards, which oblige me to silence, 
though nothing could be justly said to her prejudice or wrong. 

*. .. 

There happened during this siege a particular quarrel betwixt me 
and the Lord of Walden, eldest son, to the Karl of Suffolk, Lord 'Treasurer 
of England at that time, which 1 do but unwillingly relate, in, regard 
of the great esteem I have of that noble family; howbeit, to avoid mis- 
reports, I have thought fit to set: it; down truly. That lord having been 
invited to a feast in Sir Horace Vere's quarters, where (after the Low 
Country manner) there was liberal drinking, returned not long after 
to Sir Edward Cecil's quarters, at which time, [ speaking merrily to him, 
upon some slight occasion, he took that offence at me, which he would 
not have done at another time, insomuch that he came towards me in 
a violent manner, which I perceiving, did more than half way meet: him; 
but the company were so vigilant upon us that before any blow past 
we were separated; howbeit, because he made towards me, I thought 
fit the next clay to send him a challenge, telling him, that if he had any 
thing to say to me, I would meet him in such a place as no man should 
interrupt us. Shortly after this, Sir Thomas Peyton came to me on his 
part, and told me my lord would light me on horseback with single 
sword; ^ and, said he, " 1 will be his second; where is yours?" 1 replied 
that neither his lordship nor myself brought over any great horses with 
us; that I knew he might much better borrow one than myself; howbeit, 
as soon as he showed me the place, he should find me there on horse- 
back or on foot; whereupon both of us riding together upon two geldings 
to the side of a wood, Peyton said he chose that place, and the time break 
of day the next morning, I told him, " I would foil neither place nor 
time, though I knew not where to get a better horse than the nag I rid 
on; and as for a second, I shall trust to your nobleness, who, I know, 
will see fair play betwixt us, though you come on his side." But he urging 


me again to provide a second, I told him I could promise for none but 
myself, and that if I spoke to any of my friends In the army to this pur- 
pose, I doubted lest the business might be discovered and prevented. 

He was no sooner gone from me, but night drew on, myself resolving 
in the mean time to rest under a fair oak all night; after this, tying my 
horse by the bridle unto another tree, I had not now rested two hours, 
when I found some fires nearer to me than I thought was possible in 
so solitary a place, whereupon also having the curiosity to see the reason 
hereof, I got on horseback again, and had not rode very far, when by the 
talk of the soldiers there, I found I was in the Scotch quarter, where 
finding in a stable a very fair horse of service, I desired to know T whether 
he might be bought for any reasonable sum of money, but a soldier 
replying it was their captain's Sir James Areskin's chief horse, I demanded 
for Sir James, but the soldier answering he was not within the quarter, 
I demanded then for his lieutenant, whereupon the soldier courteously 
desired him to come to me. This lieutenant was called Montgomery, 
and had the reputation of a gallant man; I told him that I would very 
fain buy a horse, and if it were possible, the horse I saw but a little before; 
but he telling me none was to be sold there, I offered to leave in his hands 
one hundred pieces, if he would lend me a good horse for a day or two, 
he to restore me the money again when I delivered him the horse in good 
plight, and did besides bring him some present as a gratuity. 

The lieutenant, though he did not know me, suspected I had some 
private quarrel, and that I desired this horse to fight on, and there- 
upon told me, " Sir, whosoever you are, you seem to be a person of 
worth, and you shall have the best horse in the stable; and if you have 
a quarrel and want a second, I offer myself to serve you upon another 
horse, and if you will let me go along with you upon these terms, I will 
ask no pawn of you for the horse." I told him I would use no second, 
and I desired him to accept one hundred pieces, which I had there about 
me, in pawn for the horse, and he should hear from me shortly again; 
and that though I did not take his noble offer of coming along with me, 
I should evermore rest much obliged to him; whereupon giving him my 
purse with the money in it, I got upon his horse, and left my nag besides 
with him. 

Riding thus a\vay about twelve o'clock at night to the wood from 
whence I came, I alighted from rny horse and rested there till morning; 
the day now breaking I got on horseback, and attended the Lord of 
Waldcn and his second. The first person that appeared was a footman, 
who I heard afterwards was sent by the Lady of Walden, who as soon 
as he saw me, ran back again with all speed; I meant once to pursue 
him, but that I thought it better at last to keep my place. About two 
hours after Sir William St. Leger, now Lord President of Munster, 
came to me, and told me he knew the cause of my being there, and that 


the business was discovered by the Lord Will den's rising so early that 
morning, and the suspicion that he meant to light with me, and had 
Sir Thomas Peyton with him, and that lie would ride to him, and that 
there were thirty or forty sent after us, to hinder us from meeting; shortly 
after many more came to the place where [ was, and told me I must not 
fight, and that they were sent for the same purpose, and that it was to 
no purpose to stay there, and thence rode to seek the Lord of Waldcn; 
I stayed yet two hours longer, but finding still more company came in, 
rode back again to the Scotch quarters, and delivered the horse back 
again, and received my money and nag from Lieutenant Montgomery, 
and so withdrew myself to the French quarters, till 1 did find some con- 
venient time to send again to the Lord Walden. 

There was a lady also, wife to Sir John Ayres, knight', who iinding 
some means to get a copy of my picture from Larkin, gave it to Mr, 
Isaac Oliver, the painter in Blackfriars, and desired him to draw it in 
little after his manner; which being done, she caused it to be set in gold 
and enamelled, and so wore it about; her neck, so low that she hid it 
under her breasts, which, I conceive, coming afterwards to the knowledge 
of Sir John Ayres, gave him more cause of jealousy than needed, had 
he known how innocent I was from pretending to any thing which might 
wrong him or his lady; since 1 could not so much as imagine that; either 
she had my picture, or that she bare more than .ordinary affection to 
me. It is true that she had a place in court, and attended Queen Anne, 
and was beside of an excellent wit and discourse, she had made herself 
a considerable person; howbeit little more than common civility ever 
passed betwixt us, though I confess 1 think no man was welcomer to her 
when I came, for which I shall allege this passage: 

Coming one clay into her chamber, I saw her through the curtains 
lying upon her bed with a wax candle in one hand, and the picture I 
formerly mentioned in the other. I coming thereupon somewhat boldly 
to her, she blew out the candle, and hid the picture from me; myself 
thereupon being curious to know what that was she held in her hand, got 
the candle to be lighted again, by means whereof I found it: was my picture 
she looked upon with more earnestness and passion than I. could have 
easily believed, especially since myself was not engaged in any alFection 
towards her, I could willingly have omitted this passage, but that it 
was the beginning of a bloody history which followed: howsoever, yet 
I must before the Eternal Gocl clear her honour. 




( ? 1601 - 1665 ) 

JOHN EARLE was born at York in 
or about 1601. He was educated 
at Oxford, matriculating at Christ 
Church, but subsequently migrat- 
ing to Mcrton. He graduated B.A. 
in 1619 and M.A. in 1624; in 
1631 he was appointed Proctor, 
and he received the degree of D.D. 
in 1640. In 1631 he became 
chaplain to Philip, Earl of Pem- 
broke, then Chancellor of Oxford, 
and in 1639 he was made rector of 
Bishopston, Wiltshire. In 1641 
the king appointed Earle tutor to 
Prince Charles, lie accompanied 
Charles II abroad after the battle 
of Worcester, and was his chaplain 
and clerk of the closet. After the 
Restoration he met with his clue 
reward, and was appointed in turn 
Dean of Westminster, Bishop of 
Worcester, and Bishop of Salisbury, 
During the Great Plague he accom- 
panied the king and court to Ox- 
ford, and died there on lyth 
November, 1665. He was a inan 
whose moderation and geniality 
endeared him to everyone; the 
king loved and admired him; his 

co-religionists esteemed him, and 
the Nonconformists found him the 
most sympathetic member of the 
bench of bishops. 

In 1628 Microcosmographie, or a 
Pecce of the World discovered in 
Essayes and Characters appeared 
anonymously, but was soon known 
to be Earle's work. It was deser- 
vedly popular, and passed through 
seven editions in its author's life- 
time. The first edition contained 
fifty - four characters, the sixth 
seventy- eight. Some of these are 
almost certainly not by Earle. The 
book is full of wit, humour, and 
admirable character-painting. It 
is milder and more humane than 
the similar collections of Hall and 
Overbury. It is a capital book, not 
only on account of the quiet fun it 
contains, but also on account of the 
light which it throws upon the 
manners and customs of the open- 
ing years of King Charles I's reign. 
There are editions of Microcos- 
mographie by P. Bliss (1811), J. 
T. Eowler (1871), and A.-S. West 


From " Microcosmographie " 


Hoc is ii man strangely thrifty of Time past, arid an enemy indeed 
to his Maw, whence he fetches out many things when they are now 
all rotten and stinking. Hec is one that hath that unnaturall disease 
to bee cnamour'd of old age, and wrinckles, and loves all things (as 
Dutchmen doe Cheese) the better for being mouldy and worme-eaten. He 
is of our Religion, because wee say it is most ancient; and yet a broken 
Statue would almost make him an Idolater. A great admirer he is of the 



rust of old Monuments, and rcaclcs oncly those Characters, where time 
hath eaten out the letters. I Ice will goe you forty miles to sec a Saints' 
Well, or ruin'd Abbey: and if there be but a Crosse or stone foot-stoole 
in the way, hcc'l be considering it so long, till he forget his journey. 
His estate consists much in shekels, and Roman Coynes, and hec hath 
more Pictures of Caesar, then James or Elizabeth. Boggcrs him 
with musty things which they have rak't from dunghills, and he preserves 
their rags for precious Rcliques. He loves no Library, but where there 
are more Spiders volums then Authors, and lookes with great admiration 
on the Antique workc of cob-webs. Printed hookcs he contemncs, as 
a novelty of this latter age; but a Manuscript he pores on everlastingly, 
especially if the cover be all Moth-eaten, and the dust make a Parenthesis 
betweene every Syllable. lie would give all the Bookcs in his Study 
(which are rarities all) for one of the old Romano binding, or sixe lines 
of Tully ia his ownc hand. His chamber is hung commonly with strange 
Beasts skins, and is a kind of Charnel-house of bones extraordinary and 
his discourse upon them, if you will heare him, shall last longer. His 
very atyre is that which is the eldest out of fashion , and you may picke a 
Criticism out of his Breeches. lie never lookcs upon himself till he is 
gray hair'd, and then he is pleased with his ownc Antiquity. His 
Grave do's not fright him, for he ha's been us'd to Rcpulchcra, and lice 
likes Death the better, because it gathers him to his Fathers. 


He knowes the right use of the World, wherein hec comes to play 
a part and so away, His life is not idle for it Is all Action, and no man 
need be more wary in his doings, for the eyes of all men are xipon him. 
His profession ha's in it a kind of contradiction, for none is more dis- 
lik'd, and yet none more applauded and hec ha's this misfortune of 
some Scholler, too much witte makes him a foolc. He is like our painting 
Gentle-women, seldorne in his ownc face, seklomer in his cloathcs, 
and hee pleases, the better hec counterfeits, except onely when hec 
is disguis'cl with straw for gold lace, Hoc do's not only personate on 
the Stage, but sometime in the Street, for hec Is maskd still ia the habitc 
of a Gentleman. His Parts find him oathes and good words, which he 
keepes for his use and Discourse, and makes shew with them of a fashion- 
able Companion. He is tragicall on the Stage, but rampant in the Tyring- 
house, and sweares oathes there which he never conM. The waiting 
women Spectators are over-cares in love with him, and Ladies send for 
him to act in their Chambers. Your Innes of Court men were undone 
but for him, hee is their chiefe guest and imployment, and the sole busi- 
nesse that makes them After-noones men; The Poet only is his Tyrant, 
?ind hee is bound to make his friends friend drunk at his charges. Shrove- 


tuesday hee feares as much as the Baudes, and Lent is more damage 
to him then the Butcher. Hee was never so much discredited as in one 
Act, and that was of Parliament, which gives Hostlers Priviledge before 
him, for which hee abhors it more then a corrupt Judge. But to give 
him his due, one wel-furnisht Actor has enough in him for five common 
Gentlemen, and if he have a good body for sixe, and for resolution, hee 
shall Challenge any Cato, for it has beene his practise to die bravely. 


Is one that manures his ground well, but lets himself e lie fallow 
and until'd. Hee has reason enough to doe his businesse, and not enough 
to bee idle or melancholy. Hee seemes to have the judgement of Nabu- 
chadnexan for his conversation is among beasts, and his tallons none 
of the shortest, only he eates not grasse, because hee loves not sallets. 
His hand guides the Plough, and the Plough his thoughts, and his ditch 
and land-marke is the very mound of his meditations. He expostulates 
with his Oxen very understandingly, and speaks Gee and Ree better 
then English. His mind is not much distracted with objects: but if 
a goode fat Cowe come in his way, he stands dumbe and astonisht, and 
though his haste bee never so great, will fixe here halfe an houres con- 
templation. His habitation is some poore Thatcht roofe, distinguisht 
from his Barn, by the loope-holes that let out smoak, which the raine 
had long since washt thorow, but for the double seeling of Bacon on 
the inside, which has hung there from his Grandsires time, and is yet 
to make rashers for posterity. His Dinner is his other worke, for he sweats 
at it as much as at his labour; he is a terrible fastner on a piece of Beefe, 
and you may hope to stave the Guard off sooner. His Religion is a part 
of his Copy-hold, which hee takes from his Land-lord, and referres 
it wholly to his discretion. Yet if hee give him leave, he is a good Christian 
to his power (that is) comes to Church in his best clothes, and sits there 
with his Neighbours, where he is capable onely of two Prayers, for raines 
and faire weather. Hee apprehends Gods blessings onely in a Good 
Yeere, or a Fat pasture, and never praises him but on good ground. 
Sunday he esteemes a day to make merry in, and thinkes a Bag-pipe 
as essentiall to it, as Evening-Prayer, where hee walkes very solemnly 
after service with his hands coupled behind him, and censures the dauncing 
of his parish. His complement with his Neighbour, is a good thumpe 
on the backe; and his salutation, commonly some blunt Curse. Hee 
thinks nothing to bee vices but Pride and ill husbandrie, for which hee 
wil gravely disswade youth and has some thriftie Hobnayle Proverbes to 
Clout his discourse. He is a niggard all the Weeke except onely Market- 
day, where if his Corne sell well, hee thinkes hee may be drunke with 
a good Conscience. His feete never stincke so unbecomingly, as when 



hec trots after a Lawyer iu Westminster-hall, and even, cleaves the ground 
with hard scraping, in beseeching his Worship to take Ins money, lice 
is sensible of no calarnilie but; the burning of a Stacke of Corne, or the 
over-flowing of a Ivledow, and thinkes Nwths Mood the greatest Plaque 
that cucr was, not because It Drowned, the World, but spoyl'd the grasse, 
For Death hec is never troubled, and if liee got in, but bis 1 Jarvest before 
let It conic when it wil lie cures not. 



JOHN REUWN was bora at Salving- 
ton, Sussex, iu 1584, His father 
was a well-to-do yeoman, with 
considerable musical gifts. He 
was educated at Chiehester Free 
School and at Hart I hill, Oxford, 
where he did not graduate. In 
1603 he was entered at Clifford 
Ian, and was admitted to the 
Inner Temple in 1604, lie was 
not called to the Bur until, 1612. 
In 1633 l ie became a Bencher. 
Selden, although, a legal luminary 
of the first magnitude, never prac- 
tised in the courts to any extent. 
lie was content to be, as Ben 
Jonson said, " the law book, of the 
judges of England". lie was 
considered to be the final, court: of 
appeal in certain legal matters, 
especially in those matters which 
chiefly concern a legal antiquary. 
Much of Selden's career belongs 
to political rather than to literary 
history; but a brief outline of his 
life may be given. His early works, 
all replete with learning, include 
Analccton Anglo-lint anntcon (1607), 
Jani Angknim Fades alfera (1610), 
and England's Epinomis (1610). In 
1612 he wrote learned notes upon 
the first eighteen " songs " of 
Polyotoion, and in 1614 he pub- 

lished Titlcs^ of Jlnnour, ti most 
important reference book, improved 
in later editions, The third edition 
(1672) has never been superseded 
as an authority on all matters con- 
nected with titles. A; /)//> flym t 
an important; I, alia treatise on 
Oriental mythology, appeared in 
,1617. In the same year his ,/lisfory 
of Tyl/ics made its appearance, and 
got him into some trouble with the 
king and the ecclesiastical autho- 
rities. He made a lukewarm re- 
tractation and a few modifications 
in the book. In 1623 he entered 
Parliament, and in, 1636 lie took a 
prominent part in the impeach- 
ment; of Buckingham, lie was 
counsel for Sir Kdmund llampden 
in 1627, and in 1629 be supported 
the petition of the printers and 
booksellers against Laud, and took 
an active part; in the discussions 
about tonnage and poundage, lie 
was accordingly imprisoned, and 
was not liberated until May, 1631, 
lie opposed the Crown in, the 
matter of ship-money; helped to 
draw up the articles of impeach- 
ment of Laud; became clerk and 
keeper of the records of the 'Tower 
of London in 1643; after 1649 he 
took no further part in public 



affairs, and devoted himself to 

study. For many years he was 

steward to Henry Grey, seventh 

Earl of Kent, and he was said to 

have secretly married the countess 

after the earl's death, which took 

place in 1639. The countess died 

in 1651 and left most of her 

property to Selden. He died at 

the Carmelite or White Friars 

House which she had bequeathed 


Selden's Latin works do not 
find many readers; even his 
English works, though often con- 
sulted, are seldom read. His style 
is curiously cumbrous and heavy; 
it conveys information without 
entertainment. He is remembered 
almost entirely on account of his 
extraordinarily pithy and pregnant 
Table-Talk, which was taken down 
by his secretary, Dr. Richard 
Milward, and published in 1689, 

thirty-five years after Selden 's 
death and nine years after Mil- 
ward's. Coleridge said of it: 
" There is more weighty bullion 
sense in this book than I ever 
found in the same number of 
pages of any uninspired writer." 
As his earliest editor said, Selden 
" would presently convey the 
highest Points of Religion and the 
most important Affairs of State, to 
an ordinary apprehension ". He 
was an Erastian, and a strong 
advocate of common sense and 
reason. His conversation had some- 
thing of the pungency of Dr. 
Johnson's; and it is small wonder 
that it is remembered and treasured 
when his legal and antiquarian 
works are forgotten. 

[G. W. Johnson, Memoirs of 
John Selden\ there are editions of 
the Table-Talk by S. W. Singer 
(1847) and S. H. Reynolds (1892).] 

From "Table-Talk" 


Twas a good way to persuade Men to be christened, to tell them 
that they had a Foulness about them, viz. Original Sin, that could not 
be washed away but by Baptism. 

2. The Baptizing of Children with us, does only prepare a Child, 
against he comes to be a Man, to understand what Christianity means. 
In the Church of Rome it has this Effect, it frees Children from Hell. 
They say they go into Limbus Infantum. It succeeds Circumcision, 
and we are sure the Child understood nothing of that at eight Days old; 
why then may not we as reasonably baptize a Child at that Age? In 
England, of late years, I ever thought the Parson baptized his own Fingers 

rather than the Child. 

3. In the Primitive Times they had Godfathers to see the Children 
brought up in the Christian Religion, because many times, when the 
Father was a Christian, the Mother was not, and sometimes, when the 
Mother was a Christian, the Father was not; and therefore they made 
choice of two or more that were Christians, to see their Children brought 
up in that Faith. 



Tis a great Question how we know Scripture to be Scripture, whether 
by the Church, or by Man's private Spirit. Let me ask you how I know 
any thing? how 1 know this Carpet to be ^recu? First, because some- 
body told me it was green; that you call the Church in your Way. And 
then after I have been told it is green, when I see that Colour again, 
I know it to he green, my own eyes tell me it is green; that you call the 
private Spirit. 

2. The English Translation of the Bible is the best Translation 
in the World, and renders the Sense of the Original best, taking in for 
the English Translation the Bishops' Bible as well as King James's, 
The Translators in King James's time took an excellent way. That 
Part of the Bible was given to him who was most excellent in such a 
Tongue (as the Apocrypha, to Andrew Downs) and then they met together, 
and one read the Translation, the rest holding in their Hands some 
Bible, either of the learned Tongues, or French, Spanish, Italian, etc, 
If they found any Fault, they spoke; if not, he read on. 

3. There is no Book so translated as the Bible, For the purpose, 
if I translate a French Book into English, I turn it into English Phrase, 
not into French English. (// fait froid) 1 say, 'tis cold, not:, it makes 
cold; but the Bible is rather translated into English Words than into 
English Phrase. The Hebraisms are kept, and the Phrase of that Lan- 
guage is kept: which is well enough, so long as Scholars have to do with 
it; but when it comes among the Common People, Lord, what Gear 
do they make of it! 

4. Scrutammi Scrip turas. These two Words have undone the World, 
Because Christ spake it to his Disciples, therefore xvc must all, Men. 

*i If * f r 

Women and Children, read and interpret the Scripture. 

5. Henry the Eighth made a Law, that all Men might; read, the Scrip- 
ture, except Servants; but no Woman, except Ladies and Gentlewomen, 
who had Leisure, and might ask somebody the Meaning. The Law was 
repealed in Edward the Sixth's Days, 

6. Lay-men have best interpreted the hard places in the Bible, such 
as Johannes Pieus, Scaligcr, Grotius, Salmasius, ILciuaius, etc, 

7. If you ask which of Erasmus, Bexa, or Grotius did best upon 
^ New Testament? 'tis an idle Question; For they all did well in 

their Way. Erasmus broke down the first Brick, Ucan added many things, 
and Grotius added much to him; in whom we have cither something 
new, or something heightened that was said before, and so 'twas neces- 
sary to have them all three, 

8. The Text serves only to guess by; we must satisfy ourselves fully 
out of the Authors that lived about those times, 

9. In interpreting the Scripture, many do as if a Man, should sec one 


have ten Pounds, which he reckoned by i, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10: meaning 
four was but four Units, and five five Units, etc. and that he had in 
all but ten Pounds: the other that sees him, takes not the Figures together 
as he doth, but picks here and there, and thereupon reports, that he 
hath five Pounds in one Bag, and six Pounds in another Bag, and nine 
Pounds in another Bag, etc. when as in truth he hath but ten Pounds 
in all. So we pick out a Text here and there to make it serve our turn; 
whereas if we took it altogether, and considered what went before and 
what followed after, we should find it meant no such thing. 

10. Make no more Allegories in Scripture than needs must. The 
Fathers were too frequent in them; they, indeed, before they fully under- 
stood the literal Sense, looked out for an Allegory. The Folly whereof 
you may conceive thus: Here at the first sight appears to me in my Window 
a Glass and a Book; I take it for granted 'tis a Glass and a Book; there- 
upon I go about to tell you what they signify: afterwards upon nearer 
view, they prove no such thing; one is a Box like a Book, the other is 
a Picture made like a Glass: where 's now my Allegory? 

11. When Men meddle with the literal Text, the Question is, where 
they should stop. In this Case, a Man must venture his Discretion, 
and do his best to satisfy himself and others in these Places where he 
doubts; for although we call the Scripture the Word of God (as it is), yet 
it was writ by a Man, a mercenary Man, whose Copy, either might be 
false, or he might make it false. For Example, here were a thousand 
Bibles printed in England with the Text thus, (Thou shall commit 
Adultery) the Word (not) left out: might not this Text be mended? 

12. The Scripture may have more Senses besides the Literal, because 
God understands all things at once; but a Man's Writing has but one 
true Sense, which is that which the Author meant when he writ it. 

13. When you meet with several Readings of the Text, take heed 
you admit nothing against the Tenets of your Church; but do as if you 
were going over a Bridge; be sure you hold fast by the Rail, and then 
you may dance here and there as you please; be sure you keep to what 
is settled, and then you may flourish upon your various Lections. 

14. The Apocrypha is bound with the Bibles of all Churches that 
have been hitherto. Why should we leave it out? The Church of Rome 
has her Apocrypha (viz.) Susanna, and Bel and the Dragon, which she 
does not esteem equally with the rest of those Books that we call 



A Person of Quality came to my Chamber in the Temple, and told 
me he had two Devils in his Head (I wondered what he meant), and 
just at that time, one of them bid him kill me: (with that I begun to be 


afraid, and thought he was mud). He said lie knew I could cure him, 
and therefore entreated me 1<> give him something; for he was resolved 
he would go to no body else, 1 perceiving what an Opinion he had of 
me, and that 'twas only Melancholy that troubled him, took him in 
hand, warranted him, if he would follow my directions to cure him 
in a short time. I desired him to let me he alone about an .hour, and then 
to come again, which he was very willing to. .In. the meantime I got a 
Card, and lapped it up handsome in a, Piece of Talfala, and. when he 
came, gave it him to bang about his Neck; withal charged him, that 
he should not disorder himself neither with eating or drinking, but eat 
very little of Supper, and say his Prayers duly when be wont to Bed, 
and I made no question but; he would be well in three or four Days. 
Within that time I went to Dinner to his House, and asked him how 
he did. lie said he was much better, but; not perfectly well, for in truth 
he had not dealt clearly with me. lie had four Devils in his head, and 
he perceived two of them were gone, with that which I hud given him, 
but the other two troubled him stilL Well, said I, 1 am glad two of 
them are gone; 1 make no doubt but to get away the other two like- 
wise, So 1 gave him another thing to hang about; bis Neck, Three Days 
after he came to me to my Chamber and profest; be was now as well 
as ever he was in his Life, and did extremely thank me for the great 
Care I had taken of him. 1 fearing lest he might relapse into the like 
Distemper, told him that: there was none but; myself and one Physician 
more, in the whole Town, that could cure Devils in the Head, and that 
was Dr* Harvey (whom I had prepared), and, wished him, if ever he 
found himself ill in my Absence, to go to him, for he could cure his 
Disease as well as myself. The Gentleman lived many Years and was 
never troubled after. 


Old Friends are best. King James used to call, for his old Shoes; they 
were easiest for his Feet. 


The King can do no wrong; that is, no Process can be granted against 
him. What must be done then? Petition him, and the King writes upon 
the Petition soit drott fail, and sends it to the Chancery, and then the 
business is heard. His Confessor will not tell him, he can do no wrong. 

2. There's a great deal of difference between Head of the Church, 
and Supreme Governor, as our Canons call the King. Conceive it thus: 
there is in the Kingdom of England a College of Physicians; the King 
is Supreme Governor of those, but not Head of them, nor President 
of the College, nor the best Physician. 


3. After the Dissolution of the Abbeys, they did much advance 
the King's Supremacy, for they only cared to exclude the Pope: hence 
have we had several Translations of the Bible put upon us. But now 
we must look to it, otherwise the King may put upon us what Religion he 

4. 'Twas the old way when the King of England had his House, 
there were Canons to sing Service in his Chapel; so at Westminster 
in St. Stephen's Chapel where the House of Commons sits: from which 
Canons the Street called Canon-row has its Name, because they lived 
there; and he had also the Abbot and his Monks, and all these the King's 

5. The three Estates are the Lords Temporal, the Bishops and the 
Clergy, and the Commons, as some would have it, (take heed of that,) 
for then if two agree, the third is involved; but he is King of the three 

6. The King hath a Seal in every Court, and though the Great Seal 
be called Sigillum Angliae, the Great Seal of England, yet 'tis not because 
'tis the Kingdom's Seal, and not the King's, but to distinguish it from 
Sigillum Hiberniae, Sigillum Scotiae. 

7. The Court of England is much altered. At a solemn Dancing, 
first you had the grave Measures, then the Corantoes and the Galliards, 
and all this is kept up with Ceremony; at length to Trenchmore, and the 
Cushion-Dance, and then all the Company dance, Lord and Groom, 
Lady and Kitchen-Maid, no distinction. So in our Court, in Queen 
Elizabeth's time, Gravity and State were kept up. In King James's 
time things were pretty well. But in King Charles's time, there has been 
nothing but Trenchmore, and the Cushion-Dance, omnium gatherum, 
tolly-polly, hoite cum toite. 


The second Person is made of a piece of Bread by the Papist, the 
Third Person is made of his own Frenzy, Malice, Ignorance and Folly, 
by the Roundhead. To all these the Spirit is intituled. One the Baker 
makes, the other the Cobbler; and betwixt these two, I think the First 
Person is sufficiently abused. 


( 1600- 1669 ) 

WILLIAM PRYNNK was bora in 
1600 at Swanswick, in Somerset- 
shire, lie was educated at Bath 
Grammar School and at Oriel 
College, Oxford, where he gradu- 
ated B.A. in 1621. lie was 
admitted to Lincoln's Inn in 1621, 
and was called to the Bar in 1628. 
All his life he was a Puritan of the 
most determined and uncompro- 
mising kind, but he was not a good 
party-man, and usually his liand 
was against every man and every 
man's hand against him. The 
absurdity and narrow-mindedness 
of some of his views arc partly 
atoned for by the earnestness and 
fearlessness with which he expressed 
them. In 1627 he published a tract 
attacking Arminianism, and two 
pamphlets denouncing long hair 
and the drinking of healths. His 
most famous work, Histrio-Mastix, 
a scathing but unreadable denun- 
ciation of stage-plays, appeared in 
1632. A passage in its index, to 
which most of the readers of the 
book probably confined themselves, 
spoke of women-actors as " noto- 
rious whores ". This was inter- 
preted as referring to the queen, 
who had been taking part in a 
pastoral play, and Prynne was 
imprisoned. In 1634 he was con- 
demned by the Star-Chamber to 
pay a fine of 5000, to stand in the 
pillory and have both ears cut 
off, and to remain a prisoner for 
life. Even while in prison he con- 
tinued to write pamphlets inces- 
santly; one of them, News from 
Ipswich, an attack on the Bishop 
of Norwich, got him into more 

trouble, and lie was condemned 
to another line of 5000, to lose 
the remainder of his' ears, and to 
be branded on both, cheeks with 
the letters SL (for u seditious 
libeller " but humorously inter- 
preted by Prynne as " stigmata 
Laud is "). The Long Parliament 
in 1640 granted his release. Soon 
after he entered Parliament and 
took a prominent part; in the trial 
of Laud, publishing an account of 
it entitled (.hintcrburies Doom. After 
the fall of Charles 1, .Prynne 
opposed Cromwell, who had "him 
again imprisoned. His pen never 
rested for a moment, and he carried 
on single-handed a paper war 
against the Government;, lie was 
a keen advocate of the Restoration, 
and after the return of Charles was 
appointed keeper of the records 
in the Tower, u to keep him quiet ", 
In this capacity he did much, useful 
work. lie died in 1669, having 
written some two hundred works, 
in all of winch his learning outran 
his judgment and his xeal his 

Only one of his two hundred 
productions is remembered, Jlis- 
Irio-Mastix is not a contribution to 
literature; but it is famous because 
it summed up the case for the 
Puritans against; the stage, and be- 
cause of the brutal punishment 
which it brought upon its author, 
It is a forbidding book, even in its 
title, which is almost a pamphlet 
in itself, and in its Errata; Prynne 
roars loud and thunders in the 
index also. His book, indeed, 
reminds us of the epic poem of 



Orestes, of which Juvenal tells us 

" summi plena iam margine libri 
Scriptus et in tergo, nee dum finitus". 

Seventy-one fathers and fifty-five 
synods are quoted; in fact the 
margin is one solid mass of second- 
hand quotation, as odd and as fusty 
as a second-hand clothes shop. 
His predecessors in attacking the 
stage borrowed quotations one from 
another, and the ever-rolling stream 
of quotation emptied itself into 

the ocean of Histrio-Mastix. This 
was in accordance with the con- 
troversial methods of the dav, and 

*< <* 

cannot be entirelv attributed to 


Prynne's idiosyncrasy. His book 
is not likely to be entirely forgotten, 
though it is a monument of misdi- 
rected zeal and misapplied learning. 
[S. R. Gardiner, Documents relat- 
ing to the Proceedings against William 

Prynne in 1634 an ^ ^37\ r ^> B. 
Howell, A Complete Collection of 
State Trials (Vol. III).] 

From "Histrio-Mastix" 

Saint Augustine, writing of the honour (not of the adoration, a thing 
not then in use) which the Christians gave the Martyrs in his age; in- 
formes us; that they did neither exhilerate them with their crimes; 
nor yet with filthy Playes, with which the Gentiles did usually delight 
their Idol-gods. Yet our novellizing Romanists, (who vaunt so much 
of antiquity, though their whole Religion, (wherein they varry from 
us) be but novelty) abandoning the pious practice of these Primitive 
Christians, (conscious to themselves no doubt, that many of their late 
Canonized Tiburne -Martyrs, were no other, no better then the devil- 
gods of Pagans, who were oft-times deified for their notorious villanies, 
as Popish Saints are for their matchlesse treasons;) have not onely adored 
them as gods, erecting temples to their names and worship: but like- 
wise solemnized their anniversary commemorations, by personating 
in their severall Temples, the blasphemous lying Legends of their lives 
and miracles, (so fit for no place as the Stage itself e) In some theatricall 
shewes; adoring and honouring them in no other manner, then the 
very Pagans did their Devil-gods, with whom these hell-saints are most 
aptly paralleld. Such honour, such worship give the Papists to our blessed 
Saviour, to these their idolized Saints, as thus to turne, not onely their 
Priests into Players, their Temples, into Theaters; but even their very 
miracles, lives, and sufferings into Playes, To leave the Papists and 
close up this Scene. It is recorded of one Porphery a Pagan Stage-player, 
that he grew to such an height of impiety, as he adventured to baptize 
himselfe in jest upon the Stage, of purpose to make the people laugh 
at Christian Baptisme, and so to bring both it and Christianity into 
contempt: and for this purpose he plunged himselfe into a vessell of 
water which he had placed on the Stage, calling aloud upon the Trinity: 
at which the Spectators fell into a great laughter. But loe the good- 


nesse of God to this prophane miscreant; it: pleased (Joel to shew such 
a demonstration of his power and grace upon him, that this sporting 
baptisrne of his, became a serious laver of regeneration to him: \i\ so 
much that of a graeelesse Player, he became a gracious Christian, and not 
long after, a constant Martyr. The like I find resist red of one Anlalion, 
another Heathen Actor, who in derision of the holy Sacrament, of Bap- 
tismc, baptized himselfe in jest upon the Stage, and by that; inclines 
became a Christian; Cods mercy turning this his wickcdncsse to his 
eternal! good: not any wayes to justiiie Playes or Players, or to coun- 
tenance this his audacious prophannesse; but: even miraculously to 
publish to the world the power of his owne holy Ordinances, which 
by the co-operation of his Spirit, are even then able to regenerate those 
who most contemne them, when they are used but in scorne, These 
notable histories, with, the premises, sutlictently evidence, the subject 
mattQr of Btage-playcs to be oft-times impious, sacrilegious, blasphemous; 
from whence 1 raise this ninth, Argument. 

That whose subject matter is impious, sacri legions, blasphemous, must; 
needs be sinfull and imluwfull unto Christians. Witnesse LcvlL .14, i i to 17, 
2 Kings 19, 6, as. Isay 37, 6, 33.^,, 52, 5, JMatth. ju, 31. ,Ltike 2U, 65. 
1 Tim. i, 20. 

But such oft-times, is the subject matter of Slsitfc-pluyen: witnesse ihe 

Therefore they must needs be sinfull and unlawfull unto Christians. 

( 1605-1635) 

THOMAS RANDOLPH was born near 
Daventry in 1605. His father was 
steward to Lord Zoueh. lie was 
a precocious child, and at; the age 
of ten wrote The History of the 
Incarnation of our Saviour in verse. 
His mature work was not so 
edifying. lie was educated at 
Westminster and Trinity College, 
Cambridge, where he graduated 
B.A. in 1628 and M.A.'iu 1632, 
in which year he also became' n 
major Fellow of his college. While 
still an undergraduate he became 
acquainted with Ben Jonson, who 
adopted him as one of his " sons ". 

c< They both, of them loved sack, 
and harmless mirth/' as the pre- 
face to one of Randolph's plays 
informs us. In 1030 Randolph 
published his (irst work, Anstifipiis, 
or Ihe Jovial! Philosopher, To which 
is added The (loncetted Pedler, 
AristippttSi which, is written in 
prose interspersed with verse, util- 
izes Aristotelian logic to defend 
sack and attack .small beer. It was 
written to be privately performed 
at the university. The (Conceited 
Pedler is a highly amusing mono- 
logue. The Jealous Lwem, a comedy 
in blank verse, was performed 



before the king and queen at 
Cambridge in 1632. It is more 
ambitious, but also more self- 
conscious, than the rest of Ran- 
dolph's work, and cannot be 
reckoned a success. The Muses* 
Looking-Glasse, Randolph's master- 
piece, was probably acted in 1632, 
though not printed until 1638. It 
is a very clever and original play, a 
curious blend of Aristotle and 
Aristophanes, which endeavours to 
prove that virtue is a mean between 
two extremes of vice. Jonson's 
influence is plainly to be seen. 
Amyntas, or the Impossible Dowry 
is a well-finished but artificial 
pastoral play. Hey for Honesty, 
down with Knavery, a free adapta- 
tion of Aristophanes' Plutus, is 
probably not by Randolph. Ran- 
dolph's poems are full of promise 

and vigour, and, had his meteoric 
career not been cut short at the 
early age of twenty-nine, he might 
have attained great heights. He 
was a true " son " of Jonson's; his 
plays were satirical rather than 
dramatic, and he was a great con- 
sumer of sack. Unlike Jonson, 
how r ever, he was learned without 
being pedantic, and although his 
work was addressed to the micro- 
cosm of Cambridge rather than to 
the macrocosm of London, he had 
a larger share of the spirit of Aris- 
tophanes than is given to most 
English writers. 

[K. Kottas, Thomas Randolph,, 
sein Leben und seme Werke\ W. C. 
Hazlitt, The Poetical and Dramatic 
Works of Thomas Randolph', Re- 
trospective Review, Vol. VI, pp. 

From "The Muses 5 Looking-Glasse" 



My indignation boileth like a pot 
An over-heated potstill, still it boileth; 
It boileth, and it bubbleth with disdain. 


My spirit within me too fumeth, I say, 
Fumeth and stearneth up, and runneth o'er 
With holy wrath, at these delights of flesh. 


The actors beg your silence. The next virtue whose extreme we 
would present wants a name both in the Greek and Latin. 

Wants it a name? 'tis an unchristian virtue. 


Rose nis 

But they describe it such a modesty as directs us In the pursuit and 

fusal of the meaner honours, and so answers to Magnanimity, as Liber- 

ty to Magnificence. But here, that humour of the persons, being already 

recalled, and no pride now so much practised or countenanced as that 

apparel, let me present you Philotimiu, an over-curious lady, too neat 

her attire, and, for Aphilotimus, Luparius, a nasty, sordid sloven. 

Pride is a vanity worthy the correction. 



What mole drcss'cl me to-day? patience! 
Who would be troubled with these mop-eyM chamber-maids? 
There's a whole hair on this side more than t* other, 
I am no lady eke! Come on, you sloven, 
Was ever Christian madam so tormented 
o wed a swine as I am.? make you ready, 


I would the tailor had been luing'd, for me, 
That first invented clothes. nature, nature! 
More cruel unto man than all thy creatures! 
Calves come into the world with doublets on; 
And oxcu have no breeches to put; o(F, 
The lamb is born with her frieze-coat about; her; 
Hogs go to bed in rest, and are not troubled, 
With pulling on their hose and shoes i' th } morning, 
With gartering, girdling, trussing, buttoning, 
And a thousand torments that allliet humanity. 


To see her negligence! she hath made this cheek 
By much too pale, and hath forgot to whiten 
The natural redness of my nose; she knows not 
What 'tis wants dcalbation. fine memory! 
If she has not set me in the selfsame teeth 
That I wore yesterday, I am a Jew. 
Does she think that I can eat twice with the same, 


Or that my mouth stands as the vulgar does? 

What, are you snoring there? you'll rise, you sluggard, 

And make you ready? 


Rise and make you ready? 
Two works of that your happy birds make one; 
They, when they rise, are ready. Blessed birds! 
They (fortunate creatures!) sleep in their own clothes, 
And rise with all their feather-beds about them. 
Would nakedness were come again in fashion; 
I had some hope then, when the breasts went bare, 
Their bodies, too. would have come to *t in time, 


Beshrew her for J t, this wrinkle is not fuTd 
You'll go and wash you are a pretty husband! 


Our sow ne'er washes, yet she has a face 
Methinks as cleanly, madam, as yours is, 
If you durst wear your own. 


Madam Superbia, 
You're studying the lady's library, 
The looking-glass: 'tis well! so great a beauty 
Must have her ornaments. Nature adorns 
The peacock's tail with stars; 'tis she attires 
The bird of paradise in all her plumes; 
She decks the fields with various flowers; 'tis she 
Spangled the heavens with all those glorious lights; 
She spotted th' ermine's skin, and arm'd the fish 
In silver mail. But man she sent forth naked, 
Not that he should remain so, but that he, 
Endued with reason, should adorn himself 
With every one of these. The silkworm is 
Only man's spinster, else we might suspect 
That she esteem'd the painted butterfly 
Above her masterpiece. You are the image 
Of that bright goddess, therefore wear the jewels 
Of all the East; let the Red Sea be ransack'd 


To make you glitter. Look on, Luparius, 
Your husband there, and see how in a sloven 
All the best eharaeters of divinity, 
Not yet worn out in mini, are lost and burled, 


I sec it to my grief; pray, counsel him. 

Cor AX 

This vanity in, your nice lady's humours, 

Of being so curious in her toys and dresses, 

Makes me suspicious of her honesty. 

These cobweb lawns cateh, spiders, sir, believe: 

You know that clothes do not commend the man, 

But 'tis the living; though this age prefer 

A cloak of plush before a brain of art. 

You understand what misery it is to have 

No worth hut that we owe the draper for. 

No doubt you, spend the time your lady loses 

In tricking up her body, to clothe the soul. 

To clothe the soul? must the soul, too be elolliAl? 
I protest, sir, 1 had rather have no soul 
Than be tormented with the clothing of it. 

(Act IV, fifc.i.) 


[IN FORD was born at: Ilsington, 
svonshirc, in 1586, lie came of 
rood family, and was nephew to 
John Popham, the Lord Chief 
stice. Very little is known for 
tain about his life, and it is not 
own when he died. He may 
^e been for a short time at Exeter 
Allege, Oxford; he was admitted 
member of the Middle Temple 

in ,1602. As a young man he wrote 
some poetry of little merit; it; is 
as a dramatist that he is famous. 
He is believed, to have been of 
independent means, which bred 
independent manners in his work. 
The Hun's Darling, a masque in 
which Ford collaborated with 
Dekker or, more probably, revised 
Dckkcr's work, appeared in 1624. 



Ford collaborated with Dekker and 
with Rowley in the admirable 
domestic drama The Witch of 
Edmonton (?i622), but it is prob- 
able that his share in this play was 
a small one. His first independent 
play was The Lover's Melancholy 
(1628), a play strongly influenced 
by Burton's Anatomy of Melan- 
choly. It contains the famous story 
of the nightingale and the lutanist, 
taken from Strada's Prolusiones. 
His next play, The Broken Heart 
(printed 1633), ^ s one ^ tne best 
and most celebrated of Ford's 
plays, though when Charles Lamb 
says that the death of Calantha 
almost bears him in imagination to 
Calvary and the Cross, he would 
appear to be guilty of hyperbole 
as well as irreverence. Love's 
Sacrifice (also printed 1633) has 
an absurd plot but much fine 
writing in it. 'Tis Pity she's a 
Whore (printed 1633), like the lost 
Aeolus of Euripides, turns upon 
the incestuous love of a brother 
and sister. In spite of its revolting 
subject, and in spite of the sensa- 
tionalism that mars much of Ford's 
work, it is an arresting play and is 
most skilfully constructed. Perkin 
Warbeck (printed 1634) is a return 
to the chronicle-history play which 
had long been out of fashion. The 
background of reality has helped 
Ford to check the extravagances of 
his fancy, and the play is a good 
one. The Fancies, Chaste and Noble 
and The Lady's Trial (1638) both 
mark a distinct decline. After the 
publication of the latter play Ford 
drops out of sight. Four other 
plays by him were destroyed by 
Betsy Baker, John Warburton's 

After the appearance of the 
First Folio of Shakespeare in 1623 
VOL. ii. 

drama became more literary. This 
partly explains why Ford's work 
differs from that of his predeces- 
sors. He was able to study the 
work of the older playwrights In 
book form, and to look forward to 
having his own plays published 
eventually. Hence he took more 
pains than those earlier writers 
who merely prepared plays to be 
acted. He was a careful, deliberate 
workman, who wrote mainly to 
please himself. Much of his work 
is marred by sensationalism. All 
commonplace plots had been already 
used up, and he seems to have felt 
that excitement must be kept up 
at all costs. Hence he deals with 
subjects untouched by Shakespeare, 
and introduces scenes like that in 
which Giovanni rushes to meet his 
father with the heart of his sister 
and paramour on a dagger. Aris- 
totle in a famous passage tells us 
that, among spectators of tragedies, 
fear is aroused by the misfortunes 
of a man like themselves. Ford's 
heroes and heroines are too excep- 
tional to excite complete sympathy. 
He is not " loth to make nature 
afraid in his plays, to mix his head 
with other men's heels ". He had 
no sense of humour, and sinks 
below all the other Jacobean drama- 
tists in the bad quality of his 
attempts at comic relief. He was 
however, a beautiful writer of 
blank verse, he had great mastery 
over some of the technical diffi- 
culties of his art, and above all he 
had a deep knowledge of the 
passions and contradictory im- 
pulses of the human heart. 

[W. GifTord (revised by A. 
Dyce), The Works of John Ford] 
A. C. Swinburne, Essays and 


From "The Broken Heart' 5 

(While CALANTHA (Princess of Sparta) is celebrating the nuptials 
of PROPIIILUS and KUHIRANKA at court with MUSIC and dancing, 
one enters to inform her that the King her fu flier is dead; a second 
brings the news that PHNTHKA (sister to ITIIOCLHK) is starved; and 
a third comes to tell that ITIIOCLKS himself (to whom the Princess is 

contracted) is cruelly murdered.) 




We miss our servant Tthoclcs, and Origins; 
On whom attend they? 


My son, gracious princess, 

Whisper 'd some new device, to which these revels 
Should be but usher; wherein, I conceive, 
Lord Idiocies and he himself are actors, 


A fair excuse for absence: as for Bassanes, 
Delights to him are troublesome; Armostes 
Is with the king. 

He is. 

On to the dance: 
(To NEARCIIUS) Dear cousin, hand you the bride; the 

bridegroom must be 

Entrusted to my courtship: be not jealous, 
Euphranca; I shall scarcely prove a temptress. 
Fall to our dance. 

(They dance the first change, during 
7vhick ARMOSTES enters.) 

The king your father's dead, 


To the other change. 

Is it possible? 

(They dance again: BASSANES enters.} 

O madam, 
Penthea, poor Penthea's starved. 

Beshrew thee, 
Lead to the next. 

Amazement dulls my senses. 

(They dance again: ORGILUS enters.) 


Brave Ithocles is murder'd, murder'd cruelly. 


How dull this music sounds! Strike up more sprightly: 
Our footings are not active like our hearts 
Which treads the nimbler measure. 

I am thunderstruck. 

(They dance the last change. The music ceases.) 


So, let us breathe awhile: hath not this motion 
Raised fresher colour on your cheeks? (To NEARCHUS.) 

Sweet princess, 

A perfect purity of blood enamels 
The beauty of your white, 



We all look cheerfully: 

And, cousin, 'tis mcthinks a rare presumption 
In any, who prefers our lawful pleasures 
Before their own sour censure, to interrupt 
The custom of this ceremony bluntly. 

None dares, lady. 


Yes, yes; some hollow voice delivered to me 
How that the king was dead. 

The king is dead: 

That fatal news was mine; for in mine arms 
He breathed his last, and with his crown bequeathed you 
Your mother's wedding-ring, which here I tender. 

Most strange. 

Peace crown his ashes: we are queen then., 

Long live Calantha, Sparta's sovereign queen. 

Long live the queen. 

What whisper'd Bassanes? 


That my Penthea, miserable soul, 
Was starved to death. 


She's happy; she hath finished 

A long and painful progress. A third murmur 

Pierced mine unwilling ears. 


That Ithocles 
Was murder 3 d. 

By whose hand? 


By mine: this weapon 

Was instrument to my revenge. The reasons 
Are just and known. Quit him of these, and then 
Never lived gentleman of greater merit, 
Hope, or abiliment to steer a kingdom. 

We begin our reign 

With a first act of justice: thy confession 
Unhappy Orgilus, dooms thee a sentence; 
But yet thy father's or thy sister's presence 
Shall be excused; give, Crotolon, a blessing 
To thy lost son; Euphranea, take a farewell: 
And both begone. 

(To ORGILUS) Bloody relater of thy stains in blood; 
For that thou hast reported him (whose fortunes 
And life by thee are both at once snatch'd from him) 
With honourable mention, make thy choice 
Of what death likes thee best; there's all our bounty. 
But to excuse delays, let me, dear cousin, 
Entreat you and these lords see execution 
Instant, before ye part. 

Your will commands us. 


One suit, just queen; my last. Vouchsafe your clemency, 
That by no common hand I be divided 
From this my humble frailty. 

To their wisdoms, 

Who are to be spectators of thine end, 
I make the reference. Those that are dead, 
Are dead; had they not now died, of necessity 
They must have paid the debt they owed to nature 


One time or other. Use despatch, my lords.- - 

We'll suddenly prepare our coronal ion. [Exit. 


Tis strange these tragedies should never touch on 
Her female pity. 

She has a masculine spirit, 

(The Coronation of ihe Princess lakes place, after the execution of 
ORGILUS.- She enters ihe Temple, dressed in white, having a 
crown on her head. She kneels at the altar. The dead body of 
ITHOCLES (whom she should have married) is borne on a hearse, in 
rich robes, having a crown on. his head; and placed by flic sida of 
the allar, where she kneels. Her devotions ended, she rises.) 


PIIILUMA. And Others, 


Our orisons are heard, the gods are merciful. 

Now tell me, you, whose loyalties pay tribute 

To us your lawful sovereign, how unskilful 

Your duties, or obedience is, to render 

Subjection to the sceptre of a virgin; 

Who have been ever fortunate in princes 

Of masculine and stirring composition . 

A woman has enough to govern wisely 

Her own demeanours, passions, and divisions, 

A nation warlike, and inured to practice 

Of policy and labour, cannot brook 

A feminate authority: we therefore 

Command your counsel, how you may advise us 

In choosing of a husband, whose abilities 

Can better guide this kingdom. 

Royal lady, 
Your law is in your will 


We have seen tokens 

Of constancy too lately to mistrust it. 



Yet if your highness settle on a choice 

By your own judgment both allow'd and liked of, 

Sparta may grow in power and proceed 

To an increasing height. 

Cousin of Argos. 


Were I presently 

To choose you for my lord, I'll open freely 
What articles I would propose to treat on, 
Before our marriage, 

Name them, virtuous lady. 


I would presume you would retain the royalty 

Of Sparta in her own bounds: then in Argos 

Armostes might be viceroy; in Messene 

Might Crotolon bear s\vay; and Bassanes 

Be Sparta's marshal: 

The multitude of high employments could no 

But set a peace to private griefs. These gentlemen, 

Groneas and Lemophil, with worthy pensions, 

Should wait upon your person in your chamber. 

I would bestow Christalla on Amelus; 

She'll prove a constant wife: and Philema 

Should into Vesta's temple. 



This is a testament; 
It sounds not like conditions on a marriage. 

All this should be perform'd. 


Lastly, for Prophilus, 

He should be (cousin) solemnly invested 


In all those honours, titles, and preferments, 
Which his clear friend and my neglected husband 
Too short a time enjoy 7 d, 

I am unworthy 
To live in your remembrance, 

Excellent lady, 

Madam, what means that word, neglected husband? 


Forgive me, Now I turn to thee, them shadow 

[To 'the dead body of I HIGGLES. 
Of my contracted lord: bear witness all, 
I put my mother's wedding-ring upon 
His linger; 'twas my father's last; bequest: 
Thus I new marry him, whose wife 1 am; 
Death shall not separate us. () my lords, 
I but deceived your eyes with autick gesture, 
When one news straight came huddling on another, 
Of death, and death, and death; still 1 danced forward 
But it struck home, and here, and in an instant. 
Be such mere women, who with shrieks and, outcries 
Can vow a present end to all their sorrows; 
Yet live to vow new pleasures, and outlive them. 
They arc the silent griefs which cut the heart-strings: 
Let me die smiling. 

J Tis a truth too ominous. 


One kiss on these cold lips; my last. Crack, crack. 

Argos now's Sparta's king. [Dies* 



( 1596- 1666) 

JAMES SHIRLEY was born in London 
in 1596. He was educated at Mer- 
chant Taylors' School, St. John's 
College, Oxford, and Catherine 
Hall, Cambridge. Laud, then 
President of St. John's College, 
Oxford, believing that the clergy 
should be without spot or blemish, 
advised him not to take holy orders 
because he had a large mole on his 
left cheek. Shirley, however, after 
his sojourn at Cambridge, spurned 
this advice, but soon afterwards 
joined the Church of Rome and 
became a schoolmaster. In 1625 
he commenced his prolific career 
as playwright, and between that 
date and the closing of the theatres 
in 1642 he wrote some thirty-seven 
plays seven tragedies, twenty- 
four comedies (some of them 
romantic comedies, others comedies 
of manners), three masques, and 
three nondescript plays. The best 
of his tragedies are The Traitor 
(1631), Love's Cruelty (1631), and 
The Cardinal (1641); of his come- 
dies, The Witty Pair One (1628), 
Hyde Park (1632), The Gamester 
(1633), and The Lady of Pleasure 
(1635) are tne best known. In 
1634 Shirley was chosen to write 
the great masque, The Triumph of 
Peace, which the four Inns of 
Court presented to the king and 
queen. From 1636 to 1640 Shirley 
lived in Dublin, assisting John 
Ogilby with the theatre he had 
opened in Werburgh Street in 
1635, an( i producing at least four 
plays there. His work appealed to 
King Charles and Queen Henrietta 
Maria, and was widely popular. 

His relations with his fellow- 
dramatists were peculiarly happy; 
he collaborated with Chapman, 
Ford, and Massinger, and is be- 
lieved to have revised many of the 
" Beaumont and Fletcher " plays, 
one of which, The Coronation, was 
his unaided work. Shirley was, 
of course, an ardent Royalist; in 
1633 ne na d attacked Prynne in the 
dedication of A Bird in a Cage; he 
accordingly accompanied his patron, 
the Earl (afterward Marquess and 
Duke) of Newcastle, in the cam- 
paigns of 1642-1644. Afterwards 
Shirley retired to London, resumed 
his career as a schoolmaster, and 
devoted himself to the composition 
of Latin grammars. After the 
Restoration several of Shirley's 
plays were revived, but he did not 
write any new ones. He died as a 
result of the Great Fire, being 
" over come with affrightments, dis- 
consolations, and other miseries''. 
He appears to have been a man 
of a modest and amiable dis- 
position, and to have had no 

Shirley is important, not so 
much on his own account, as be- 
cause he was the last of " the giant 
race before the flood " His plays, 
the product of a happy copiousness, 
run on familiar lines, and are with- 
out violence or exaggeration. He 
is a more equal writer than Ford 
or Massinger, though he does not 
rise to the heights which they 
sometimes attain. As a poet he is 
best remembered for his lyric 
The Glories of our Blood and State. 
At his death the last link between 


he Elizabethan and the Restoration by A. Dycc); K. S. Forsythe, The 

Relation of tilth- Icy* $ /'/</w /o ike 

tage was broken. 

[W. Gilford, Dramatic Works Elizabethan Drama\ A. fl. 
nd Poems of James Shirley (revised James N/ifrlcy, Drama list, \ 

From "The Lady o( : Pleasure" 

>Vr Thomas BORNKWF.LL expostulates with his Lady on 
her extravagance and love, of 

BORNKWKIVL, Aui-rriNA, Iiis lady. 


I am angry with myself; 
To he so miserably restrained in, tiling's, 
Wherein it cloth, concern, your love ami honour 
To see me satisfied, 


In what, Aretina, 

Dost thou accuse me? have I not obey'd 

All thy desires, against; mine own opinion; 

Quitted the country, and removed the hop v k 

Of our return,, by sale of that fair lordship 

We lived in: chunked a culm and retired, life 

For this wild town, composed of noise and charge? 


What charge, more than is necessary 
For a lady of my birth and education? 


I am, not; ignorant how much nobility 

Flows in your blood, your kinsmen great; and powerful 

Ja the state; but with this lose not your memory 

Of being my wife: 1 shall be studious, 

Madam, to give the dignity of your birth 

All the best ornaments whieh become my fortune; 

But would not; flatter it, to ruin both, 

And be the fable of the town, to teach 

Other men \vit by loss of mine, employed 

To serve your vast expenses. 


Am I then 
Brought in the balance? so, sir. 


Though you weigh 

Me in a partial scale, my heart is honest; 

And must take liberty to think, you have 

Obey'd no modest counsel to effect, 

Nay, study ways of pride and costly ceremony; 

Your change of gaudy furniture, and pictures, 

Of this Italian master, and that Dutchman's; 

Your mighty looking-glasses, like artillery 

Brought home on engines; the superfluous plate 

Antic and novel; vanities of tires, 

Fourscore pound suppers for my lord your kinsman, 

Banquets for the other lady, aunt, and cousins; 

And perfumes, that exceed all; train of servants, 

To stifle us at home, and show abroad 

More motley than the French, or the Venetian, 

About your coach, whose rude postilion 

Must pester every narrow lane, till passengers 

And tradesmen curse your choking up their stalls, 

And common cries pursue your ladyship 

For hindering of their market. 

Have you clone, sir? 


I could accuse the gaiety of your wardrobe, 

And prodigal embroideries, under which, 

Rich satins, plushes, cloth of silver, dare 

Not show their own complexions; your jewels, 

Able to burn out the spectators' eyes, 

And show like bonfires on you by the tapers: 

Something might here be spared, with safety of 

Your birth and honour, since the truest wealth 

Shines from the soul, and draws up just admirers. 

I could urge something more. 

Pray, do, I like 
Your homily of thrift. 


I could wish, nuuliim, 

You would not game so much. 


A gamester, too! 


But arc not conic to that repentance yet, 
Should teach you skill enough to raise your profit; 
You look not through the subtlety of cards, 
And mysteries of dice, nor can you save 
Charge with the box, buy petticoats and pearls, 
And keep your family by the precious income; 
Nor do I wish you should: my poorest servant 
Shall not upbraid my tables, nor I us hire 
Purchased beneath my honour; you make play 
Not a pastime, but a tyranny, and vex 
Yourself and my estate by it. 

Good, proceed. 


Another game you have, which consumes more 

Your fame than purse, your revels in the night, 

Your meetings, calPtl the ball, to which appear, 

As to the court of pleasure, all your gallants 

And ladies, thither bound by a subpoena 

Of Venus and small Cupid's high displeasure: 

Tis but the family of Love, translated 

Into more costly sin; there was a play on it; 

And had the poet not been bribed to a modest 

Expression of your antic gambols in it, 

Some darks had been discovered; and the deeds too; 

In time he may repent, and make some blush, 

To sec the second part danced on the stage, 

My thoughts acquit you for dishonouring me 

By any foul act; but the virtuous know, 

'Tis not enough to clear ourselves, but the 

Suspicions of our shame. 



Have you conclude cl 
Your lecture? 


I have clone; and howsoever 

My language may appear to you, it carries 

No other than my fair and just intent 

To your delights, without curb to their modest 

And noble freedom. 


I'll not be so tedious 

In my reply, but, without art or elegance, 

Assure you I keep still my first opinion; 

And though you veil your avaricious meaning 

With handsome names of modesty and thrift, 

I find you would intrench and wound the liberty 

I was born with. Were my desires unprivileged 

By example; while my judgment thought them fit, 

You ought not to oppose; but when the practice 

And tract of every honourable lady 

Authorize me, I take it great injustice 

To have my pleasures circumscribed and taught me 

A Dirge 

The glories of our blood and state 
Arc shadows, not substantial things; 
There is no armour against fate; 
Death lays his icy hand on kings; 

Sceptre and crown 

Must tumble down, 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 
And plant fresh laurels where they lull; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield; 
They tame but one another slill: 

Early or late 

They stoop to fate, 


And must give up their murmuring breath, 
When they, poor captives, creep to death,. 

The garlands wither on your brow, 
Then boast no more your mighty deeds; 
Upon .Death's purple altar now 
See, where the victor-victim bleeds: 

Your heads must come 

To the eold tomb, 
Only the actions of the just: 
Smell sweet and blossom in, their dust. 

(From The (lonlcntion of Ajax and Ulyms!) 


WILLIAM CAMDEN (1551-1623) 
was born in London and educated 
at Christ's Hospital and St. Paul's, 
and at Broadgates Hall (Pembroke 
College) and Christ Church, Ox- 
ford. He was appointed second 
master of Westminster School in 
1575, and became headmaster 
eighteen years later. He devoted 
his leisure and his holidays to the 
study of British antiquities; and 
began to collect material for his 
great work, the Kritannia, which 
gives a topographical and historical 
account of the British Isles from 
the earliest ages. It was published 
in Latin in 1586; later editions were 
considerably enlarged and improved, 
and it was translated into English, 
by Philemon Holland (q.v.) in 1610, 
under the supervision of Camden 
himself. In 1597 Camden was 
appointed Clarcnceux King - of - 
Arms, and found himself more at 
leisure to pursue his studies. His 
second great work, Annaks Rcrum 
Anglicarum rcgnante Elisabctha, 
appeared in Latin in 1615 and was 
translated in 1625; a second part 
(posthumously published to avoid 
adverse criticism) appeared in 1627 
and a translation of it in 1629. 
Camden's other works include a 
Greek grammar, which had an. 
exceptionally long life, and Remains 
concerning Britain^ published anony- 
mously in 1605. He died in 1623 

at Chislehurst, in Kent, in the house 
which was afterwards that of Napo- 
leon HI, He wrote mostly in Latin, 
but the English translations of his 
works were early and good, lie 
was an excellent chronicler and, 
better than that, an able historian. 
His history of the reign of Eliza- 
beth is in good perspective, as ho 
lived neither too near to nor too 
far from the events which be 
chronicles. Ben Jonson, a former 
pupil of Camden's, called him " the 
glory and light of our kingdom, ", 
and attributed to him, all his own 
learning and love of scholarship. 

1618) was born in, Dublin. His 
father was recorder of Dublin and 
Speaker of the Irish House of 
Commons, and his nephew was 
the celebrated Archbishop James 
Ussher (1581-1656). He was edu- 
cated at Watcrford and at Univer- 
sity College, Oxford, where he 
graduated BA, in 1568. tie 
studied law, but his interests lay 
in literature and archeology, and 
he contributed the sections dealing 
with Ireland to Uolinshed's Chroni- 
cles (1578). After the death of bis 
first wife fetany hurst left the British 
Isles for ever, lived in the Low 
Countries and Spain, became u 
Roman Catholic, and was employed 
in secret service by the King of 



Spain; after the death of his 
second wife he became a Roman, 
Catholic priest. He wrote several 
learned works in Latin, but is only 
remembered on account of his 
grotesque translation of the first 
four books of Virgil's Aeneid into 
English hexameters, published at 
Leyden in 1582. This translation 
is at once stilted and low; it is full 
of eccentricities and of verbal 
coinages which have been the 
subject of the inevitable German 
thesis. His translation soon be- 
came a byword; it fe still unin- 
tentionally entertaining. It is 
curious how a sensible man came 
to write such a burlesque version 
in all good faith. Barnahe Rich 
justly says that Stanyhurst stripped 
Virgil " out of a Velvet gownc into 
a Fooles coat". The translation 
was reprinted by Professor K. 
Arber in 1880, 

BARNABE RICH (?i54o-?i6ao) was 
an Essex man and had a long and 
varied career as a soldier in the Low 
Countries and in Ireland. Three 
or four years before his death he 
was presented with ^ too on account 
of his being the oldest captain in 
the kingdom. During his military 
career he wrote many denunciatory 
pamphlets and several cuphuistic 
romances. The chief subjects of 
his denunciations were Ireland, 
Roman Catholicism, and tobacco, 
His most celebrated work is a col- 
lection of eight romances, bearing 
the misleading title of Rich his 
Farewell to Militarie Profession, 
published in 1581. One of these 
romances is the source of part of 
the plot of Twelfth Night, and 
another is the direct source of that 
unpleasing but almost unique 
Scottish comedy Philotus (printed 

in 1603). Another of Rich's ro- 
mances is entitled The Strange 
and Wonderful Adventures of Don 
Simonides (1584). Rich was no 
poet, but his prose is by no means 

was a Kcntishman and was edu- 
cated at Southampton. He was u 
good French scholar, but entered 
a trading firm at an early age and 
wrote poetry in his spare time. In 
1606 he was appointed groom of 
the chamber to Prince Henry, and 
in 1613 became secretary to the 
merchant adventurers and went 
to live in IVIiddelburg, in Holland, 
where he died live years later. IBs 
original poems are entirely and 
quite justifiably forgotten; but he 
is still remembered as the trans- 
lator of the works of Du Ikutas 
(1544-1590), the French Huguenot 
poet. Sylvester cle voted most of 
his life to Du Bartas, with whose 
theological views lie wus hi com- 
plete sympathy; his first translation 
appeared in 1590, and the first 
collective edition, of K arias his 
Dcvine Weekrs and Workcs appeared 
in 1606, It is in rhymed decasyl- 
labic verse, and is full of conceits 
and absurdities. its popularity, 
which was considerable, did not 
last longer than to the time of the 
Restoration or thereabouts. Milton, 
read Du Bairtas in this translation 
when at an impressionable age, 
and his perusal of it left traces, 
unimportant hut clistiact, on Para- 
dise Lost. A. B. Grosarl edited 
Sylvester's works in 1880. 

EDWARD FAIRFAX (c. 7580-1635) 
was a natural son of Sir Thomas 
Fairfax of Dcnton, Yorkshire. His 
life was uneventful, and lie settled 


at Newhall, in the parish of Fews- 
ton, Yorkshire, to a life of studious 
leisure, diversified only by witch- 
hunting. His original poems are 
valueless, but in 1600, when only 
twenty years old or thereabouts, 
he published Godfrey of Bulloigne 
or the Rccoiterie of Jerusalem. Done 
into Kntfish heroicall verse by Ed- 
ward Fairefax, Gent. This is the best 
translation in English of the great 
poem of Tasso (1544-1595)) anc j 
ranks with Chapman's Homer and 
FitzGcrald's Omar Khayyam, and 
one or two others, as a translation 
which has itself become a classic. 
King James was said to have 
valued Fairfax's Tasso above all 
other English poetry, and King 
Charles read it with delight during 
his imprisonment. Waller was a 
keen admirer of Fairfax, and was 
influenced by him, 

1612) was the son of John Harmg- 
ton, who was Henry VIIX's con- 
fidential servant and son-in-law. 
He was educated at Eton and 

Christ's College, Cambridge, and 

. i j aw 


translations, was the worst ", The 
Metamorphosis of Ajax y which does 
not deal with classical mythology, 
and whose title contains a pun 
which is fortunately only intelligible 
to the antiquarian, appeared in 
1596, and was closely followed by 
three similar Rabelaisian pamphlets. 
Harington served in Ireland with 
Essex, who knighted him; and he 
took a keen interest in the affairs 
of that country. " I think my very 
genius doth in a sort lead me to 
that country," he wrote; accord- 
ingly he requested to be made 
Archbishop of Dublin, a request 
which was, not unnaturally, refused. 
No " playboy could claim an 
equality at comicality" with him; 
he remained always a jester at 
heart. His miscellaneous works 
include epigrams, often more witty 

treatise on health. Nugae Antiquae, 
a valuable collection of papers by 
him or in his possession, was 
published in 1769. 

GILES FLETCHER, the elder (?i549- 
1611), is not to be confused with his 
more celebrated son of the same 

ladies of the 


He was employed 



guishcd piece of work; it does not, 
however, deserve Jonson's uncom- 
promising verdict " That John 
Iliiringtcm's Ariosto, under all 

VOL, 11, 

X to promo^ ill-feeling 
and Russ i a , and 




was not printed In its entirety 
until 1856, Fletcher's other literary 
work of Importance was a volume 
of fifty-two sonnets entitled Licia, 
or Poeines of Love (1593), a col- 
lection which was frankly imitative. 
Unlike most sonneteers, Fletcher 
was somewhat declined into the 
vale of years; his sonnets arc some- 
times good but not spontaneous. 

FRANCIS MERES (1565-1647) was 
a Lincolnshire man, and was edu- 
cated at Pembroke College, Cam- 
bridge, where he graduated B.A, 
in 1587 and M.A. in 1591, He 
took the M.A, degree at Oxford, 
by incorporation, in 1593. He 
took holy orders, became rector of 
Wing, in Rutland, in 1602, trans- 
lated two Spanish devotional works, 
probably from French versions, and 
lived a long and uneventful life. 
He is only remembered on account 
of his compilation Palladts Tamia, 
Wits Treasury, published in Sep- 
tember, 1598, and reissued as a 
schoolbook in 1634. In it he inter- 
polated " A Comparative Discourse 
of our English Poets with the Greek, 
Latin and Italian Poets ", in which 
he mentions Shakespeare as our 
most accomplished playwright and 
enumerates twelve of his plays* 
Meres was a man of small critical 
ability; that he anticipated the 
verdict of posterity on Shakespeare 
was due to good luck more than to 
good judgment. He was cuphuistic 
in his style, and preferred balance 
and symmetry in his sentences to 
truth in his statements. He is less 
than homo unius Ubri\ he is homo 
unius loci, the passage in which he 
helps us to date twelve Shake- 
spearean plays, speaks of Shake- 
speare's " sugred sonnets among 
his private friends ", and bequeaths 

us the problem of identifying Love's 
Labour's Won. 

was ji Shropshire man, and was 
educated at Brasenose College, 
Oxford, where he graduated B.A. 
in 1592, His three slender volumes 
of verse were all published before 
he was twenty-five. The Affectionate 
Rhcphcard appeared in 1594; it is a 
kind of expansion of the second 
eclogue of Virgil ( (< that; horrid 
one, Beginning with Formomm 
pas for Cory don"). His second 
volume, Cynthutj appeared, in 1595; 
The Kmomion of Lady Pecunki in 

i' mr 

1598. Barnfiekl seems to have 
ended his days as a country squire. 
His poems have some of the 
qualities of poetic exercises, but 
arc pleasing, especially m their 
descriptions of rural sights and 
sounds. He is perhaps remem- 
bered chiefly as the author of two 
of the poems attributed to Shake- 
speare in the piratical Passionate 
Pilgrim ( a If music and sweet 
poetry agree " and " As it fell 
upon a day"). These two poems 
are almost certainly Barnliekl'a, 
and several others iu the same 
collection may be his. 

1633) was a Shropshire man, and 
was educated at Shrewsbury and 
St. John's College, Cambridge, 
He was a good lawyer but a very 
indifferent poet, and is chiefly 
remembered as an indefatigable 
producer of English hexameters of 
poor quality, lie was a follower of 
Gabriel Harvey, and a protege of 
Sidney and of Sidney's sister, the 
Countess of Pembroke, His works 
include The Lamentations of A,min<* 
tas for the death of P/ullh, para* 



phrastically translated out of Latine to him, and he attempted many 

into English Hexameters (1587) and kinds of literary compositions. 

The Countesse of Pembrokes Ivy- Books on farriery and horseman- 

church (1591). Some of Jonson's ship, books on husbandry and 

remarks to Drummond err on the housewifery, treatises on soldiering 

side of brutality, but he was not and archery, poems on Sir Richard 

far wrong when he said " That Grenviile and Mary Magdalene, 

Abram Francis (sic) in his English and a continuation of Sidney's 

Hexameters was a foole 

Arcadia all these and many more 
works flowed from his Indefatigable 
pen. Jonson told Drummond that 
Markham " was not of the number 

BARNABE BARNES (? 1569-1 609) 
was a son of the second Protestant 
Bishop of Durham, and was edu- of the faithful! , and but a base 
cated at Brasenose College, Ox- fellow ". He certainly knew all 
ford, where John Florio (q.v.) was the tricks of his trade; one of his 
his servitor. He had a short and, books has no fewer than eight 
according to his enemies, an in- dedications, each of which doubt- 
glorious career as a soldier before less brought in a pecuniary reward; 
publishing, in 1593, his principal he disposed of his remainders by 
collection of poems, Parthenophil the simple process of providing 

and Parthenophe. This collection 
contains a hundred and five sonnets, 

them with fresh title pages and 
reissuing them as new books. He 

besides madrigals, elegies, odes, wrote so frequently on veterinary 
&c. There are many echoes of subjects that on i4th July, 1617, 
Sidney and Petrarch in it, but he was compelled to sign a paper 
Barnes had a great gift of song, and promising to write no more books 
did some good work. His Divine on the treatment of diseases of 
Centurie of Spiritual! Sonnets, a horses and cattle. His works owe 
much less noteworthy collection, more to assiduity than to inspira- 
appeared in 1595. His play The tion, but his Maister-peece (1610) 
Divils Charter (1607), dealing with ran into its twenty-first edition 
Pope Alexander VI, is not memor- in 1734. He is a weakly-sup- 
able. Barnes was a friend of ported candidate for having been 
Gabriel Harvey, and accordingly the rival poet of Shakespeare's 
an enemy of Nash and Campion. Sonnets. 
He is one of the candidates for hav- 
ing been the rival poet of Shake- GABRIEL HARVEY (?i545~ l6 3 ) 
speare's Sonnets. His works are was the son of a ropemaker of 
not easily accessible. 

GERVASE MARKHAM (?is68-i637) 

Saffron Walden, and was closely 
identified with Cambridge for many 
years of his life. He graduated 

came of a good Nottinghamshire B.A. from Christ's College in 1570, 
family, and served as a soldier for and was elected to a fellowship at 
a time in the Low Countries and Pembroke Hall in the same year, 
in Ireland. He embarked on the In 1578 he became fellow of 
career of a miscellaneous writer at Trinity Hall, and seven years later 
an early age, and his output was was appointed master of that toun- 
cnormous. No subject came amiss dation, but the appointment was 



quashed and never took effect. 
Harvey was an angular and difficult 
person, and quarrelled with^most 
of his acquaintances. lie himself 
wrote nothing which can be called 
literature, but he is of some im- 
portance in literary history for 
two reasons. He was Spenser's 
friend and perhaps his tutor, and 
tried to persuade the poet to 
abandon rhyme and write English 
hexameters; and he embroiled him- 
self with Greene and subsequently 
with Nash in an acrimonious con- 
troversy which was finally stopped 
only by the intervention of the 
Archbishop of Canterbury, 

PHILIP STUBBES (c. 1555 -. 1610) 
was educated at Cambridge and 
Oxford, but did not graduate at 
either, leading a roving life for 
many years and, like Ulysses, 
seeing the towns and manners of 
many men. lie was a sociologist, 
though that unpleasant word was 
not coined until some two hundred 
and thirty years after his death. 
His mind was powerful and origi- 
nal; he wrote a life of his wife, who 
died when only nineteen years old, 
four years after her marriage, 
Stubbes's most celebrated work is 
The Anatomy of Abuses (1583), the 
result of seven years' wanderings, 
It gives much valuable information 
about the manners and customs of 
the times. Stubbes was a Puritan 
of the better kind, ardent but not 
an extremist, a partisan but willing 
to allow that there was something 
to be said on the other side. He, 
moreover, wrote from observation 
and did not, like many of his fellow- 
Puritans, merely repeat second- 
hand denunciations. It is hardly 
necessary to say that he was 
vehemently attacked by Nash. 

WauAivr IlAiuwTON (//. 1598) 
was one of Ilenslowe's hack-writers, 
who collaborated with playwrights 
such as Chettle, Dckkcr, Day, und 
Ilathway. Of his life wo know 
almost nothing^ except that iu 
March, 1600, he was imprisoned 
in the Clink, and Henslowc, who 
was not generous, was willing to 
pay ten shillings to secure bis 
release. Only one extant play is 
HaughtonAs unaided work, the very 
amusing comedy Knglisli-Mc.n for 
my Money: or, A U'omtm will have 
her will (1598; printed 1616), He 
may have written (trim, l/ie ( Jollier 
of Croydon (printed 1662), a much 
more old-fashioned type of comedy. 
All his other work is lost. 

HENRY POUTHR (?*573 ?) was 
also one of Ilenslowe's men, and 
collaborated with Chettle und with 
Jonson. Little is known alx nit his life 
except his various pecuniary trans- 
actions with llenalowe. lie may 
perhaps be identified with a Henry 
Porter who was catered at Brasc- 
nose College, Oxford, in 1589. In 
1598 he collaborated with Jon&on 
and Chettle iu Hot Anger noon CWrf, 
which has not; been, preserved. 
His one play which has survived, 
The Two 'Angry Women of Ahingloti 
(1599), is a rustic comedy written 
with admirable gusto and liveliness. 
Its easy prose is hard to match save 
in the plays of some of the greatest 
of Porter's contemporaries, and 
Mall, the hoydenish heroine, is 
drawn in a masterly, llogurtbian 

ANTHONY MUNDAY (1553- 1633) 
was throughout his long life au 
unwearied contributor to many 

departments of literature. In his 
time he played many parts, being 



in turn actor, playwright, Protes- Queen Elizabeth entitled Englande's 
tant spy, journalist, ballad-maker, Mourning Garment; but he is, 
stationer, and draper. His English 
Romayne Life (1582), for which he 

had gathered materials four years 
previously when visiting Italy in 
a somewhat dubious capacity, is 
not without interest. Munday had 
a hand in eighteen plays, of which 
only four are extant, John a Kent 
and John a Cumber (1595); The 
Downfall of Robert, Earle of Hunt- 
ingdon (1599); The Death of Robert 
Earle of Huntingdon (with Chettle); 
and Sir John Oldcastle (1599, with 
Dray ton, Hathway, and Wilson). 
Munday's numerous ballads are 
lost, but his ballad-writing in- 
fluenced him in his dramatic work, 
both in his choice of subject and 
in his treatment. His gifts were of 
a homely kind, and he wrote at 
least seven city pageants. He also 
translated, by no means faithfully, 
many romances of chivalry, in- 
cluding Palladino of England (1588) 
and Amadis de Gaitle. He was 
ridiculed by Jonson in The Case is 
Altered (1599), and was uncritically- 
described by Meres in his Palladis 
Tamia as " our best plotter ". He 
was John Stow's literary executor, 
and in his later years achieved a 
position of a kind as doyen of Grub 

HENRY CHETTLE (Pi56o-?i6o7) 
was another of Henslowe's men. 
He wrote thirteen plays by himself, 
of which only one, the powerful 
but unequal Tragedy of Hoffman 
(acted 1602, very imperfectly 
printed 1631) has survived. He 
collaborated with Munday, Dray- 
ton, Dekker, Wilson, Porter, Jon- 

perhaps, chiefly remembered in 
literary history as Greene's literary 
executor. In this capacity he edited 
Greene's Groatsworih of Wit in 
1592, and in the following year 
apologized in his Kind -Hart's 
Dreame to Shakespeare (the passage 
is almost universally interpreted 
thus) for the offensive allusion in 
Greene's death-bed pamphlet. 

was born at Chelmsford, Essex, 
and graduated B.A. in 1571 at 
Trinity College, Cambridge, where 
he also held a fellowship. He grad- 
uated M.D. at some unknown 
university, probably Continental or 
Scottish, about 1595, and practised 
medicine at Coventry. He also was 
an usher at the Coventry Free 
School, of which he was head- 
master for a few months when over 
seventy-five years of age. He was 
called by Fuller "the Translator 
General in his age )J , and his trans- 
lations from the classics are numer- 
ous, excellent, and extremely uni- 
form in their good qualities. He 
translated Livy (1600), Pliny's 
Natural History (1601), Plutarch's 
Moralia (1603), Suetonius (1606), 
Ammianus Marcellinus (1609), 
Camden's Britannia (revised by 
the author, 1610), and Xenophon's 
Cyropaedia. Holland was a good 
scholar, and was not dependent 
upon any French or Italian inter- 
mediaries, making his translations 
straight from the Greek or Latin. 
All his translations are good, but 
his Plutarch and Suetonius are of 
outstanding merit. 

son, Day, and others in thirty-six 

plays, of which only four are LANCELOT ANDREWES (1555- 

extant. He published an elegy on 1626) was educated under Mul- 



caster (q,v.) at Merchant Taylors 1 
School and at Pembroke Hall, 
Cambridge, of which he became 
fellow in 1576 and master in 1589. 
He became Dean of Westminster 
in 1601 and Bishop of Chichestcr 
in 1605; in 1609 he was translated 
to Ely and in 1619 to Winchester. 
He stood high in Elizabeth's and 
even higher in James's estimation. 
lie was a man of immense learning, 
being acquainted with fifteen lan- 
guages, but was even more cele- 
brated for his piety. A high- 
churchman of the best kind, he 
was respected by all parties and was 
not unsympathetic towards those 
who held different views from his 
own. His sermons were considered 
by his contemporaries to have 
reached the high-water mark of 
pulpit eloquence. ( Their learning 
and the mental gymnastics dis- 
played in them appealed to King 
James; to us they often appear 
grotesque and in doubtful taste. 
Doubtless, like most sermons, they 
owed much to their delivery. Tra- 
dition tells us that Andrcwes's 
delivery was superb. 

NICHOLAS BRETON (? 15415- ?i6z6), 
whose name is pronounced as if 
spelt " Briton ", was the son of a 
London merchant and stepson of 
the poet George Gaseoigne (q.v.). 
He is believed to have been edu- 
cated at Oriel College, Oxford. 
He was a prolific writer of excep- 
tional longevity; his literary career 
stretches from 1577 to 1626. lie 
wrote both in prose and in verse, 
and attempted satires, religious 
poems, pastorals, and occasional 
poems of all kinds. Some of his 
best work is to be found in The 
Passionate Shepherd (1604); Wits 
Trenchmour (named after a kind 

of dance) is a prose angling idyll, 
and a pleasing anticipation of 
Walton. Breton wrote too much, 
but some of his poems are charm- 
ing, especially his pastorals. Cer- 
tain of his books arc valued as 
bibliographical rarities rather than 
for the sake of their contents. 

SAMUKL Rown<;v (? d. 1633) is 
not to be confused with the more 
important dramatist William Row- 
ley, who is sometimes said to have 
been his brother, but only upon 
the unsupported testimony of 
]. P. Collier. Samuel Rowley was 
one of llensloweAs men. Unlike 
the majority of dramatisSts, he was 
never an actor, but; was employed 
as a render and reviser of plays. 
His career as author began in i6or. 
There is some reason for discredit- 
ing him with at least having had 
a hand in the comic scenes of 
Doctor Fauatus. II is one extant; 
play is When you see. mi\ you know 
we, or the fatuous (Chronicle Jlistorw 
of King lie/trie VI II (acted 1603, 
printed 1605), a tfd enough his- 
torical play with a strong mixture 
of buffoonery. The Nobh tfoldier 
(printed 1634) may be in part his 
work, but Dekker undoubtedly had 
a main hand in it, and it; contains 
two scenes interpolated front Day's 
Parliament of ttees* 


was a Devonshire man, and was 
admitted a member of the Middle 
Temple in 1594. That is almost all 
we know about him, except that, 
in spite of his belonging to a learned 
profession, Ben Jonson considered 
him a rogue. His two witty farces, 
The Flare and Cupid's Whirligig > 
were both printed in 1607, having 
been aeted not long before this 



date. Sharp ham was a lawyer by 
profession and merely an amateur 
dramatist, who took Middleton as 
his model. 

JOHN SPEED (?i552-i629) was 
the son of a tailor and followed the 
same trade himself for many years, 
until, owing to the kindness of Sir 
Fulke Greville (Lord Brooke, q.v.), 
a place was found for him in the 
custom-house. He was an accom- 
plished antiquarian and carto- 
grapher, and between 1608 and 

1610 published fifty-four maps of 
England and Wales, collected in 

1 61 1 and published as Theatre of 
the Empire of Great Britaine. In 

j */ 

the same year appeared his great 
work, The History of Great Britaine 
(Julius Caesar to James I), in the 
preparation of which he had been 
helped by Cotton, Spelman, and 
Barkham. Speed's work is good, 
and he has some claim to rank as 
an historian, not a mere chronicler. 
Fine writing, however, was often 
his undoing; he would probably 
have written better if he had not 
tried to write so well. He shows 
some judgment in digesting his 
sources, Speed also wrote two 
theological works of great popu- 
larity but no permanent value. 

(1571-1633) made no contribution 
to literature himself, but he de- 
serves a brief notice on account of 
the services he rendered to learn- 
ing not only by collecting his 
famous library, but by throwing 
it open to men who could best 
appreciate the privilege men such 
as Bacon, Jonson, Speed, Selden, 
and Raleigh. Cotton was educated 
at Westminster under Camden, 
who imbued him with a love for 

antiquities, and at Jesus College, 

Cambridge, where he graduated B .A. 

in 1585. He soon began to gather 

together his magnificent collection 

of ancient charters, records, and 

other MSS. Like many collectors, 

he was not over-scrupulous in his 

methods of acquiring his treasures, 

but, unlike some, he was generous 

in giving access to them. He was 

knighted in 1603, and was created 

a baronet in 1611, the year of the 

foundation of that order, which had 

been instituted largely owing to his 

advice. He got into some trouble 

in connexion with the Overbury 

case, and in his later years was 

imprisoned as a supporter of Parlia- 

ment against the king. His death 

was hastened by his exclusion from 

his library by order of the king. 

The Cottonian Library was trans- 

ferred to the nation in 1702 and 

removed to the British Museum in 

1627) was a Suffolk man, and was 
educated at Pembroke College, 
Cambridge, where he graduated 
B.A. in 1581, M.A. in 1584, and 
LL.D. at some later date. He was 
a keen and serious student of 
history, and in 1599 acquired some 
notoriety by publishing The First 
Part of the Life and Raigne of 
Henry IV, for which he was im- 
prisoned, as the deposition of 
Richard II did not commend itself 
to the queen as a subject for his- 
torical (or dramatic) treatment. 
Lives of the HI Normans, Kings of 
England appeared in 1613; Hay- 
ward's best work, The Life and 
Raigne of King Edward the Sixt, 
was published posthumously in 
1630. Hayward was knighted in 
1619. He was a scholarly man, and 



endeavoured to follow Latin models, the court wits and would-be wits, 
especially Tacitus, when compos- but was by no means the lool he 
:- i,:~ i,:^..;** T-Tift wriiinnrs are appeared to be, and sometimes, in 

ing his histories. His writings are 
not mere compilations, and have 
some claim to be regarded as 
literature, though his style is some- 
what florid. 

RICHARD KNOLLES (?i55o-i6io) 
was a Northamptonshire man, and 
was educated at Lincoln College, 
Oxford, of which he became a 
fellow. In 1571 he was appointed 
master of the grammar-school at 
Sandwich, Kent, and held this 
post until his death, almost forty 
years later. He is essentially homo 
unius libri his imposing Gcncrall 
Historie of the Turkey which was 
originally published in 1603 and 
reissued several times, with con- 
tinuations by Thomas Nabbcs the 
dramatist (1638 edition) and by 
Sir Paul Rycaut (1679 and later 
editions). Knollcs had a good 
though elaborate prose style, and 
showed some skill in the arrange- 
ment of his material, but he de- 
rived much of his information from 
second-hand sources, and his book 
is not of much value to the his- 
torian. It had a great and long- 
lived reputation, and was warmly 
admired by Dr. Johnson and by 

THOMAS CORYATIS (? 1577-1617) 
was born at the village of Odcombe, 
in Somersetshire, and educated at 
Gloucester Hall, Oxford, where 
he did not graduate. lie was a 
man of odd appearance, with a 
head shaped like that of Thcrsitcs 
as described by Homer; his char- 
acter was as eccentric as his appear- SAMUEL PURCHAS , . 
ance, and he became a kind of upon whose shoulders the mantle 
court-buffoon after the accession of Hakluyt not altogether worthily 
of James. He was the butt of all fell, was born in Essex and educated 

an exchange of repartees, gave at 
least as good as lie got. In 1608 he 
travelled to Venice and back, 
covering almost two thousand miles, 
mainly on foot. Ilia journal 
appeared in 1611 with the extra- 
ordinary title Coryats Crudities t 
J fasti lie gohled up in five monclhs 
Trtvoelh 'in France, Sawy, Italy, 
RheUa, . . . Helvetia, , , . Ger~ 
many, and ihe, Netherlands, newly 
digested in the hungry aire of Qd- 
combe in the (Bounty of Somerset., 
and now dispersed 1o tha nourishment 
of the travelling members of this 
kingdom. Numerous panegyric 
verses, ironically written by emi- 
nent contemporaries, were edited 
by Ben Jouson and prefixed to this 
volume, which was followed in the 
same year by two equally oddly- 
named supplements. In ^ 1612 
Coryate formally hung up in the 
church at Odcombe (where his 
father had been rector) the shoes 
in which he had walked from 
Venice, and started again on his 
travels. He visited Constantinople, 
Asia Minor, Greece, and Egypt, 
and went through Palestine, ^Meso- 
potamia, and Persia to India, but 
died of a flux at Surat, aged forty. 
Coryatc, underneath a veneer of 
oddity and buffoonery, was a 
shrewd observer, and, when he 
was not playing the clown, wrote 
in a clear and simple style. His 
entertaining book was hard to get 
hold of until 1905, when it was 



at St. John's College, Cambridge. 
From 1604 to 1613 he was vicar of 
Eastwood, in Essex, and from 1614 
until his death rector of St. Mar- 
tin's, Ludgate. There is " dam- 
nable iteration " in the titles of his 
three works, which are Purclias his 
Pilgrimage (1613), Purchas his Pil- 
grim (1619), and liakliiytus Pos- 
ifntmus, or Purchase his Pilgrimes 
(1625). Of them the last is by far 
the most famous. Purchas had 
Hakluyt's assiduity, but not his 
literary skill or editorial judgment. 
His style is tinged with euphuism, 
and he is sometimes careless and 
inaccurate. He has, however, pre- 
served much material of great value. 

SIR ROBERT AYTON (1570-1638) 
was born at the castle of Kinaldie, 
near St. Andrews, and was educated 
at St. Andrews University, where 
he graduated M.A. in 1588. He 
travelled on the Continent and 
studied law, but followed no defi- 
nite career for some years. In 1603 
he was fortunate enough to address 
a Latin hexameter poem to James 
which secured that monarch's affec- 
tionate esteem; he was appointed 
private secretary to Queen Anne, 
and after Charles's accession was 
secretary to Queen Henrietta Maria. 
He was knighted in 1613, and was 
occasionally employed on em- 
bassies. As a poet he was quad- 
rilingual, and attempted to write 
in Latin, Greek, French, and 
English. His English verses arc 
trifles tolerably well executed; they 
have the air of being the literary 
exercises of an accomplished cour- 
tier, and display affectation rather 
than genuine feeling. The most 
interesting thing about them is that 
they are written in elegant English, 
not in Scots. 

NATHANIEL FIELD (1587-1633)7 
although the son of a famous 
Puritan preacher and the brother 
of a future Bishop of Hereford, left 
Merchant Taylors' at an early age 
to join the children of the Queen's 
Revels. He became at once a 
famous boy-actor, and played in 
Jonson's Cynthia's Revels (1600) 
and Poetaster (1601). Jonson was 
grateful to Field for his good 
acting, and read Horace and Martial 
with him; Field, when he began to 
write for the stage, took Jonson as 
his model. Field's two plays were 
probably both acted in 1610; A 
Woman is a Weather- cocke is the 
earlier of the two, as Amends for 
Ladies is intended to be a kind of 
palinode. Both plays are well- 
constructed and full of admirable, 
though somewhat boisterous, 
humour. Field rose to be the most 
eminent actor of his day, and his 
plays show an actor's eye for 
stagecraft. He collaborated with 
Fletcher and Massinger; The Fatal 
Dowry was published (1632) as by 
Field and Massinger. In his latter 
days he became pious. 

SIR JOHN BEAUMONT (1583-1627) 
was a brother of Francis Beaumont 
(q.v.)> and was educated at Broad- 
gates Hall, Oxford. He entered the 
Inner Temple, but abandonee! the 
study of law when the untimely 
death of his elder brother in 1605 
made him head of the family. He 
spent most of his life quietly at 
Grace-Dieu, Leicestershire, but was 
patronized by the Duke of Buck- 
ingham, and was created a baronet 
in the year previous to his death. 
In 1602 he published The Meta- 
morphosis of Tobacco, a pleasant 
enough mock-heroic poem; his 
principal work, however, was col- 



lected posthumously and published 
by his son in 1629, under the title 
of Bosworth Field, with a Taste of 
the Variety of other Poems. Bos- 
worth Field itself is somewhat tame, 
but it is written in heroic couplets 
of surprising smoothness, and doubt- 
less played its part in establishing 
the ascendancy of that metre. The 
volume contains some good sacred 
poems. Beaumont's magnum opus. 
The Crown of Thorns, in eight 
books, is lost. 

GEORGE SANDYS (1578-1644) was 
the seventh and youngest son of 
Edwin Sandys, Archbishop of York, 
and was educated at St. Mary Hall, 
Oxford. In 1610 he started on his 
travels, and visited Turkey, Egypt, 
Italy, and other countries; his 
account of his travels, an admirable 
and popular book, appeared in 
1615 with the title The Relation of 
a Journey begun an. Dom. i6ro. In 
1621 Sandys was appointed treas- 
urer of the Virginian Company 
and went to America, where he was 
appointed a member of the council, 
remaining ten years in the country. 
His translation of Ovid's Meta- 
morphoses (published 1626) was 
mostly written in Virginia, and was 
the first literary work of any con- 
sequence done in America. It is 
a good rendering, but is sometimes 
spoilt by attempting to adhere too 
closely to the original. Sandys had 
a good ear for metre, and kept 
strictly to the rules of prosody. 
Sandy s's later works are of a 
sacred character- Paraphrases upon 
the Psalms (1636), Christ* s Passion 
(1640), and A Paraphrase of ihe 
Song of Solomon (1641). In these 
poems the accomplished metrist is 
to be ccen no less clearly than the 
pious colonist. 

JOHN TAYLOR (1580-1653), usu- 
ally known as the " water-poet " 
was a native of Gloucester, and, 
after failing to acquire a proper 
amount of Latin grammar, was 
apprenticed to a London waterman, 
He was pressed into the .navy, and 
was at the taking of Cadiz, under 
the Earl of Ksscx, iu 1596; for 
many years he was collector of the 
wine dues exacted by the lieutenant 
of the Tower of London. He after- 
wards kept a tavern, first at Oxford, 
and then at Westminster, lie was 
a well-known " character " of his 
day, and was patronized, half in 
jest, by many eminent men, from 
King James downwards, lie ar- 
ranged the water-pageant at the 
marriage of Princess Elizabeth in 
1613. llis pieces to the number of 
sixty-three were published in a 
folio volume in, x(>30, but he was 
the author of over one hundred 
and fifty publications, both in 
prose and verse, lie frequently 
performed journeys under odd con- 
ditions for ii wager; in :i6i8 he 
walked from London to Braemar 
without any money, and iu 16:1:9 
rowed from London to Queen- 
borough iu a brown-paper boat, 
whose oars were caues with stock- 
fish tied to them. His booklets 
deal with a vast variety of: subjects, 

' +r / 

from TIw Life, and Dcalh of ihe 
Virgin Mary^ to An. Arrant Thief 
and The Hellish Parliament. The, 
Pennykss Pilgrimage > celebrating his 
Scottish trip, is perhaps his best- 
known work. His crude prose and 
doggerel verse scarcely rank as 
literature, but they have a certain 
rough vigour, und are of some 
interest to antiquaries. 

THOMAS MAY (1595-1650) was 
born in Sussex, and educated at 



Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge, 
where he graduated B.A. in 1612, 
He was one of Ben J orison's 
" sons ", and in 1620 or thereabouts 
wrote two more or less I'onsonian 
plays, The Heir and Thc Old 
Couple. lie also wrote three 
classical tragedies, painstaking hut 
quite lifeless, and obviously imi- 
tations of Scjanus and Cat i line- - 
shadows of a shade, lie is better 
remembered for his translation 
(1627) and continuation of Lueun; 
his continuation he translated into 
excellent .Latin hexameters. lie 
also translated Tlie Ccorgics and 
some Martial. May had hopes, 
which were not fulfilled, of suc- 
ceeding his literary * ( father " in 
the semi-ot'lieial laureateship; cither 
owing to disappointment or for 
sonic other reason, he was a sup- 
porter of the Parliament during the 
Civil War, and in 1647 wrote an 
official History of I he. Long l\irlht* 
menf, a book which professed to 
aim at studious impartiality, but 
did not attain it. Throe" yeans 
later May was choked by his night- 

ROBERT DAVKNPCMT (//. 1623) was 
at some time at sea, in what capacity 
we do not know, nor do we know 
anything else about him apart 
from his literary work, hi 1633 ho 
published two poems of no impor- 
tance, " the one divine, the other 
moral " His three extant; plays arc 
King John and Matilda (printed 
1655), -^ New Trick to cheat the 
Dwell (1639), and The, City Niftht- 
Cap (printed 1661), The iirst- 
mimecl play is u resuscitation of 
Munday and Chettle'fl Death of 
Robert, Earl of Huntingdon, and it 
has been suggested that (he two 
comedies also contain old material. 

The City Night-Cup is n romantic 
and disagreeable play, based, upon 
the Curious Impertinent: in thin 
Oitixolc. A New Trick is pleasauter, 

but of no great depth, 


554i()28)wasbornnt Ueiiuehamp 
Court, Warwickshire- He \var 
educated at Shrewsbury, which he 
entered on, the same 'day as Sir 
Philip Sidney. The two hoys imme- 
diately became firm friends, nor 
was their friendship interrupted 
when Sidney went to Oxford awl 
(Jreville to Jesus College, Cam- 
bridge. The two friends went to 
court; together in 1577, and both 
aequireda high place in the queen 1 :! 
favour, (Jreville was forbidden to 
travel as he wished to do, and wan 
prevented from accompanying his 
I'rioml on the expedition \\hieh 
ended at '/utpheiu (Jreville was 
essentially a statesman; he \\a,s 
secretary for the principality of 
Wales, and (t5<)8) treasurer of the 
navy, lie wan created Knight of 
the Hath in 1603 ami Lord Ifrookr 
in ifm, after n\signin,ij the chaii- 
eellorshii> of ^thc exchequer, \vhieh 
he hud hekl for over six years, t!r 
vvas stabbed by a servant, who wan 
infuriated by his exclusion from 
his will, atitl who committed ;uii 
cide immediately after, (Jrevillc 
lingered for a month, and died on 
September. ifuH. !im u\u 
ici, l\Iust(iphti and Ahilum, 
\vhieh were not intended for tin* 
stajj-o, arc altmmt forgotten; 

a eollecUoji of u nonnets '*, only a 
third of whieh art' tnio SCHUJHN, 

eontaius belter \vork, (Jivville* IH 
remeinl)end chiefly as Sitltu*\ *:i 

friend and biographer, though hit. 
l)i<)Kraphy wa not puhliHlunl' until 


3 8o 

is relegated to the Appendix of this 
book not because his work is un- 
interesting or unimportant, but 
because it is so inextricably inter- 
woven with that of other men. Little 
is known of his life. Prior to 1610 he 
acted in Queen Anne's company; 
in 1613 his company became known 
as the Prince of Wales 's. He joined 
the King's servants in 1623, and 
retired from the stage in 1627. lie 
married in 1637, and is supposed 
to have died before the outbreak of 
the Civil War. Four extant plays 
are said to be entirely the work of 
Rowley, A Nczv Wonder, a Woman 
never vexed] All's Lost by Lusl; A 
Match at Midnight; and A Shoo- 
maker a Gentleman. None of these 
plays is of outstanding merit; and 
Rowley owes his fame to his colla- 
borations with Wilkins and Day, 
with Hey wood, Massinger, Dekker, 
Ford, and Webster, but especially 
with Middleton (q.v.). Middleton 
and Rowley were ideal partners, 
and each had a good influence upon 
the work of the other. The Change- 
ling is their best play, Rowley was 
probably in demand so often as a 
collaborator because he had an 
actor's knowledge of practical stage- 
craft. His one prose tract, A 
Search for Money (1609), gives an 
amusing account, In, the vein of 
Dekker, of contemporary London 

RICHARD BRQME (? d. 1652) wrote 
fifteen plays which have been pre- 
served, and some nine others which 
have been lost. Very little is known 
of his life, except that he was for 
some years Jonson's " servant " 
(probably his amanuensis; the idea 
of Jonson having a valet is some- 
what grotesque). Naturally Brome 


modelled his plays upon Jensen's; 
his rivals, unable to resist 'the pun' 
declared that: IJrome's comedies' 
were the sweepings from Jonson's 
study. Brome began to write for 
the stage iu collaboration with 
Jonson J s son, but their play, A 
Fault in Friendship, has not been 
preserved. IJrome's best plays are 
The Northern Lass and A Jovial 
Crew, or ihe Merry 7fr%wr, the 
latter was the last play acted before 
the closing of the theatres in 1642. 
Their vivid portrayal, of manners is 
the most valuable feature of Bronte's 
plays, lie was a gentle and modest 
man, not intended by nature to 
wield the savage weapons of a 
satirist, and might have written 
better plays if lie had not been 
overridden by the forceful per- 
sonality of his master. 

THOMAS NABHKS (?i6os ?i(>45) 
was a " sou ", or perhaps rather"u 
would-be son, of Jonsou's. 1 le was 
educated at Kxeter College, Ox- 
ford, and seems to have spent 
much of his life in Worcestershire. 
His tragedies arc bad, his comedies 
fair, and his masques (so called) 
good. His comedies are Covcnt 
Garckn (1632), Tottenham (Jourt 
(1633), and The llride (1638), 
realistic plays of London or subur- 
ban life, undistinguished by bril- 
liance, but untainted by coarseness. 
Nabbes's best work is, perhaps, to 
be found in his i{ Moral! Maske ", 
Microcosmus. In 1638 he wrote a 
continuation of Knollcs's Gcncrall 
Historic of the Titrkes. 

1643) was the son of a Cirenccster 
innkeeper, and was educated at 
Westminster and Christ Church, 
Oxford. He was renowned both as 


a scholar and later on as a preacher. 
He did not write any plays after 
taking holy orders, so that his four 
somewhat perfunctory plays must 
have been written before 1638, 
when he was ordained deacon. 
Three of them are extravagant and 
not attractive tragi-comedies (The 
Lady Errant, The Royal Slave, and 
The Siege); the fourth is a Jon- 
sonian comedy of some merit, The 
Ordinary (1635), which borrows 
many features from The Alchemist. 
Cartwright, who died young, was 
considered by his contemporaries 
a kind of Admirable Crichton, but 
neither his plays nor his poems, 
mostly occasional, justify this repu- 

1668), son of the proprietor of the 
Crown Inn, Oxford, and Shake- 
speare's godson, was educated at 
Magdalen College School and Lin- 
coln College, Oxford. He entered 
the service of Fulke Greville, Lord 
Brooke (q.v.) and began his career 
as poet and playwright after the 
murder of that nobleman. His 
early plays include The Platonick 
Lovers (1636) ; The Wits (acted 
1633, published 1636), his best 
comedy; Love and Honour (? 1634); 
The Fair Favourite, and The Un- 
fortunate Lovers (1638). In 1638 
he was chosen to succeed Jonson 
as semi-official Poet Laureate. He 
was an active Royalist, and was 
knighted by Charles I at the siege 
of Gloucester (1643). Afterwards 
he was confined in the Tower, 
where he completed his respectable 
but wearisome poem Gondibert 
(published 1651). In 1656 he 
produced a semi-public and quasi- 
dramatic show, The First Dayes 
Entertainment at Rutland House. 

This was followed by The Siege of 
Rhodes (1656), virtually an opera; 
The Cruelty of the Spaniards in Peru 
(1658), and The History of Sir 
Francis Drake. After the Restora- 
tion he established the Duke's 
Theatrical Company, and produced 
several original plays as well as 
some adaptations of Shakespeare. 
Like Janus, D'Avenant looks before 
and after; backwards to Fletcher 
and the Elizabethans, forwards to 
Dryden and the Restoration drama- 
tists. He is a very mediocre poet 
and a second-rate dramatist, but is 
of importance in stage if not in 
literary history. He had much to 
do with the reopening of the 
theatres, the rise of opera, the in- 
troduction of women-actors, and 
the elaboration of scenery and 
stage effects. His dramatic works 
have been edited by J. Maidment 
and W. H. Logan. 

JASPER MAYNE (1604-1672) was 
a Devonshire man, and was edu- 
cated at Westminster and at Christ 
Church, Oxford, where he had a 
distinguished career, culminating 
in a D.D. degree in 1642. He held 
two college livings, from both of 
which he was ejected during the 
time of the Commonwealth. After 
the Restoration, Mayne was rein- 
stated in his livings and appointed 
Archdeacon of Chichester and 
chaplain in ordinary to the king. 
His writings consist of a poor 
tragi-comedy, The Amorous War; a 
lively comedy, The City Match 
(1639); some verses of little im- 
portance; and an admirable trans- 
lation of Lucian. The City Match 
is a clever adaptation of Jonson^s 
farcical masterpiece, Epicoene; it 
is amusing, but it is so close an 
imitation that it is not entitled to 


much praise on the score of 

1639) belonged to an old North- 
amptonshire" family, and was edu- 
cated at Wadham College, Oxford, 
where he graduated M.A. in 1624. 
He went campaigning for a time in 
the Low Countries, settled clown 
to the life of a more or less dis- 
reputable man of letters in London, 
joined Suckling's troop of horse in 
the Scottish expedition of 1638, 
and died at York early in 1639. 
Marmion was one of Jonson's 
" sons ", and makes his sonship 
clear in his three not very remark- 
able comedies Holland's Leaguer 
(1632), A Fine Companion (1633), 
and The Antiquary (1636). The 
last named is the best; the anti- 
quary, Vctcrano, is a cleverly con- 
structed Jonsonian puppet. Mar- 
mion's poem Cupid and Psyche has 

was the author of five rather poor 
plays, and is otherwise unknown. 
The plays are The Hollander (1635), 
a not too bad romantic comedy; 
Wit in a Constable (1:639); '^ IC 
Ladies Privilege (1640); Ar gains 
and Parthenia (1639), a pastoral 
founded on Sidney's Arcadia] and 
Albertm Wallmstein (1:639). The 
last-named play is more interesting 
in its choice of subject than in its 
execution, as it was produced , 
than five years after Wal 
assassination. Glapthornc/j not, 

as far as we know, one of Jonson's 
sons, but he owed a certain debt to 
Jonson. The 1874 reprint of Glap- 
thorne's plays is as poor a specimen 
of editing as the plays themselves 
are of dramatic composition. 

WILLIAM LITINJOW (1:582 ^1645) 
was born at Lanark and educated 
at Lanark Grammar School, lie 
started on his extensive travels 
while quite a young man, being 
urged on partly by his natural 
Wanderlust and partly by an un- 
fortunate love-ull'iiir, which cost 
him his ears. He travelled at 
various times through Europe, the 
Levant, Egypt, and Africa, and 
claimed to have covered thirty-six 
thousand miles, mostly on foot, in 
nineteen years. It is almost un- 
necessary to say that he had 
innumerable adventures, meeting 
with storms and shipwrecks, land- 
thieves and water-thieves, and be- 
ing racked and hung up by the big 
toes by the Inquisition at Malaga. 
Lithgow's chief work is The. Tot all 
Discourse, of the 'Rare Adventures and 
painful Peregrinations of long nine-* 
fcene YaareS) which was published 
in 1632 (a first draft, much shorter, 
appeared in 1614). It is si most 
valuable and interesting book in 
spite of its euphuistie style (hi- 
stead of " eyewitness " he writes 
*' ocular testator "), but it is valu- 
able for the information it contains, 
not as literature, A reprint ap- 
peared in 1906, Lithgow's poems, 
^jflta* Pilgriwes Farewell, &e., are 
^(^interesting, but not as poetry, 


(Names in italics are to be found in the Appendix) 

Alexander, Sir William, 

Earl of Stirling, 175. 
Andrewes, Lancelot, 373. 
Ayton, Sir Robert, 377. 
Bacon, Francis, Viscount 
St. Albans, 196. 

Barnes, Barnabe, 371. 

Barnfield, Richard, 370. 

Beaumont, Francis, 235. 

Beaumont, Sir John, 377. 

Breton, Nicholas, 374. 

Brome, Richard, 380. 

Browne of Tavistock, Wil- 
liam, 284. 

Burton, Robert, 325. 

Camden, William, 367. 

Campion, Thomas, 166. 

Cartwright, William, 380. 

Chapman, George, 208. 

Chettle, Henry, 373. 

Constable, Henry, 80. 

Corbet, Richard, 289. 

Coryate, Thomas, 376. 

Cotton, Sir Robert Bruce, 


Daniel, Samuel, 87. 

D'Avenant t Sir William > 

Davenport, Robert, 379. 

Davies, Sir John, 95. 

Davies of Hereford, John, 

Day, John, 204. 

Dekker, Thomas, 221. 

Deloney, Thomas, 109, 

Donne, John, 292. 

Dray ton, Michael, 177. 

Drummond of Hawthorn- 
den, William, 276. 

Dyer, Sir Edward, 82. 

Earle, John, 337- 

F air fax, Edward, 368. 
Felltham, Owen, 304. 
Field, Nathaniel, 377. 
Fletcher, Giles (the elder], 

Fletcher, Giles and Phi- 

neas, 187. 
Fletcher, John, 235. 
Florio, John, 159. 
Ford, John, 352. 
Fraunce, Abraham, 370. 
Glapthorne, Henry, 382. 
Greene, Robert, 15., 
Greville, Fulke, Lord 

Brooke, 379. 
Hakluyt, Richard, 53. 
Hall, Joseph, 105. 
Harington, Sir John, 369. 
Harvey, Gabriel, 371. 
Haughton, William, 372. 
Hay ward, Sir John, 375. 
Herbert of Cherbury , Lord, 


Heywood, Thomas, 228. 
Holland, Philemon, 373. 
Hooker, Richard, 74. 
James VI and I, 102. 
Jonson, Benjamin, 249. 
Knolles, Richard, 376. 
Kyd, Thomas, 48. 
Lithgozu, William, 382. 
Lodge, Thomas, 23. 
Lyly, John, i . 
Markham, Gervase, 371. 
Marlowe, Christopher, 34. 
Marmion, Shackerley, 382. 
Marston, John, 217. 
Massinger, Philip, 315. 
May, Thomas, 378. 
May ne, Jasper, 381. 
, Meres, Francis. 770 

MIddleton, Thomas, 306. 
Montgornerie, Alexander, 


Munday, Anthony, 372. 
Nabbes, Thomas, 380. 
Nash, Thomas, 29. 
Overbury, Sir Thomas, 


Peele, George, 9. 
Porter s Henry, 372. 
Prynne, William, 346. 
Purchas, Samuel, 376. 
Raleigh, Sir Walter, 272. 
Randolph, Thomas, 348. 
Rich, Barnabe, 368. 
Rowley, Samuel , 374. 
Rowley, William, 380. 
St. Albans, Viscount. See 


Sandys, George, 378. 
Selden, John, 340. 
Shakespeare, William, 115. 
Shakespeare Apocrypha, 

Sharpham, Edward, 374. 

Shirley, James, 361. 
Southwell, Robert, 85. 
Speed, John, 375. 
Stany hurst, Richard, 367. 
Stirling, Earl of. See 

Stubbes, Philip, 372. 
Sylvester, Josuah, 368. 
Taylor, John, 378. 
Tourneur, Cyril, 323. 
Warner, William, 62. 
Watson, Thomas, 64. 
Webster, John, 260. 
Wither, George, 281. 
Wotton, Sir Henry, 287